


Baiting the Beauty

by glamaphonic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, F/M, POV Alternating, POV Female Character, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 41,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glamaphonic/pseuds/glamaphonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Miss Brienne Tarth has an extremely eventful Season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is owed partially to my abiding love of Jaime/Brienne, partially to my unwavering devotion to romance novels, and just a bit to terrible friends who encourage me to do ridiculous things. Thanks, Viv.

 

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

“Damnation!” 

This manner of utterance, huffed out between clenched teeth, was not a common occurrence in the breakfast room of the Stark household. Indeed, it was not the sort of utterance normally to be heard from the Dowager Marchioness of Winterfell at all, regardless of setting.

“Mama!” exclaimed Lady Sansa, the dowager’s eldest daughter. She looked up from her poached egg, her pretty face twisted into an expression of dual shock and delight.

The Honorable Miss Brienne Tarth first studied Lady Winterfell to ensure that she was well, before relenting and smiling down into her cup of chocolate. The older woman was agitated, but not ill and Brienne, like Sansa, could not help the thrill of humor at the unfailingly well-mannered lady cursing.

“What is it, my lady?” Brienne asked mildly, having schooled her face back to its normal evenness.

Lady Winterfell scowled furiously down at the perfectly ironed newspaper clasped in her graceful hands.

“It’s unpleasant, is what it is,” the marchioness replied. She shook the paper sharply, as though the force could jar loose the words that had displeased her. “It seems the rumors about our neighbor were correct.”

At this, Sansa perked up again. She had spent the previous day reporting on the movements of the servants next door at hourly intervals and peering out the green sitting room’s windows at the carriages delivering trunks and bandboxes. Brienne had also taken the odd peek, but only, she convinced herself, because her own bedroom window faced a triangle of darkened windows in the other house. She was now quite familiar with the movement patterns of the upstairs maids as they aired out the rooms, but neither Brienne nor Sansa had gotten a peek at the master of the house.

“Really?! May I see?” Sansa asked, though the request was belied by her quick hands relieving her mother of the paper before a response could be made. Sansa scanned the society pages, smiling broadly.

“Jeyne said so! I told you she said so.” This was directed at Brienne, who only nodded. “Jeyne Poole, I mean. Not my sister Jeyne, of course.”

Considering that the current Marchioness of Winterfell was rusticating in the north at the family estate and had little interest in the latest _on dits_  even when she was in Town, Brienne did not think this clarification necessary. She did not say so. Sansa was almost always the picture of quiet demureness, but when she was very excited her thoughts tended to bubble over like milk left too long on the boil.

“Certain gentleman Locked down by gambling debts… rout party at Tyrell House…” Sansa murmured as she scanned the small print. “Ah, here it is! _An illustrious Personage will be making a stay in Grosvenor Square. Though this Golden Son rarely strays far from his family’s company or estates it is almost assured that Town will be graced with his presence for the whole of the Season and beyond_.”

“Do you really believe it’s him?” Brienne asked Lady Winterfell.

The lady had returned to her breakfast as her daughter read, though her countenance was no less pained than it had been minutes before.

“I can’t imagine it could be anyone else,” she said.

“Jaime Lannister,” Sansa breathed with all the delighted awe with which a child speaks of a ghost in the attic or, perhaps, the old witch in the woods.

“Awful man,” Lady Winterfell declared. 

This was not a new position. In the years since she had first befriended the marchioness, Brienne had gleaned much about the lady’s opinions on the many great—and not-so-great—families of England. The Lannisters were no favorites hers. The Lions of Casterly were overwhelmingly wealthy and every bit as grasping and unscrupulous as they were rich. Though they’d had long relationships with most of the other old families—the Starks and Lady Winterfell’s own family, the Tullys, included—few were particularly good relationships.

Jaime Lannister, Earl of Westland and the future Lord Casterly, was especially infamous. Whether it was buying himself a commission straight out of Eton and thus incurring his father’s (quite understandable) wrath, overshadowing his military victories and legendary prowess with wanton dueling, or his purportedly numerous and uniformly salacious affaires, he was a scandalous figure from every angle.

Lady Winterfell held a particular grudge over a duel he’d engaged some years ago with her younger brother, now the Earl of Riverrun. The Earl—then simply Lord Edmure Tully—had been badly wounded, though he recovered with no permanent impairment. Lady Winterfell seemed to Brienne to most resent the frivolousness of the thing. It was said to have been over a game of chess, and Edmure had been little more than a boy at the time. Those without so personal a connection tended to find the whispered-about duel rumored to have resulted in the death of Aerys, Duke of Dragonstone, of slightly more interest. Not least because the entire affair had been so thoroughly hushed up by the Lannister bank accounts.

“He’s terribly handsome,” Sansa said. “Or he was last I saw him. You will invite him to my ball, won’t you, Mama?”

For all the scandals that trailed in his wake, Jaime Lannister was invited everywhere; his wealth and prestige mixed with the thrill of his infamy set the Ton aflutter without fail. Brienne would have found the eagerness on the girl’s face hard to deny. Lady Winterfell, it turned out, had no intention of doing so.

The marchioness sighed heavily and chewed one of her toast points before responding.

“I’ve little choice in the matter,” she allowed, “since the man didn’t have the decency to get into Town after we’d already sent out the invitations.”

Sansa clapped her hands in glee. Then, flushing prettily, bit her lip before speaking again.

“Do you think perhaps he has company-- that is, if he’s brought any of his family with him?”

“The paper would have mentioned it, I think,” Brienne offered slowly, knowing to what this line of questioning tended.

The marchioness was no more fooled than Brienne. She smiled, but it was a sad one, tightlipped and slight.

“I doubt it, my dear. If Joffrey had chosen to join his cousin I don’t see why they wouldn’t have opened up Baratheon House instead. I doubt he’ll be doing any traveling this Season at all. They _are_  in mourning.” 

The last was said with an edge of sternness, and Sansa looked chagrined. It had not been so very long ago that her own father had passed on. A fact that could not be easily forgotten as the marchioness sat before them, a curl of her auburn hair bright against the shoulder of the dull grey morning dress she wore. For the sake of her children, she’d put off black, but when Lady Winterfell had gone, at last, into half-mourning, she stayed there and, by all appearances, intended to do so indefinitely.

“Of course,” Sansa said, significantly more subdued. “I only thought he might come down at the end of the term.”

Many marriageable young ladies—and their mamas—kept abreast of the university holidays so that they could know when eligible young men might be about and receiving invitations. Sansa was only concerned with one eligible young man. The fact that she hadn’t spent any significant amount of time with him since she was still in the schoolroom deterred her not at all. Her father, the Marquess of Winterfell, had been bosom bows with Robert Baratheon, Duke of Kingsland. Though the two men never made it official, they were not shy about the fact that they wished for a match between Eddard’s eldest daughter and Robert’s heir. Such an alliance between the families had been planned once before, until Eddard’s sister had eloped with the heir to Dragonstone instead of marrying Robert.

Brienne had never been able to glean with total certainty how likely Lady Winterfell felt this match to be with both men now in their graves, but based on unsavory rumors Brienne had heard about the young Duke’s rakish tendencies, the younger woman was not awash with confidence.

Sansa, however, was endlessly determined.

“Perhaps I shall ask when he calls.”

“ _If_  he calls,” Lady Winterfell put in. Brienne’s eyebrows raised, and Lady Winterfell must have noticed because she added, quite knowingly, “And if you imagine that a gentleman of such consequence could not possibly be so rude, you would be wrong.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance meeting.

 

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

Jaime Lannister did not call. Not that morning and not the morning following. On the third morning, Brienne did Lady Winterfell the great favor of convincing Sansa to take a trip to Bond Street to pick out a reticule and slippers to match the gown that was being made for her coming out. Brienne imagined morning calls would be far more enjoyable for the marchioness without Sansa visibly deflating every time the butler announced anyone besides the much-anticipated guest and only perking up again when she could draw the actual guest into conversation about the man. Brienne, frankly, was tiring of the very sound of his name.

Walking amongst the shops and watching Sansa make a sizable dent in her pin money was a welcome reprieve. It did not, however, serve to cure Brienne’s own restlessness. Though she was naturally far less forthcoming on the topic, Baratheon House lying deserted across the square troubled Brienne as much, if not moreso, than it troubled Sansa. Of course, the gentleman whose presence she longed for did not have the excuse of being up at Cambridge.

The Duke’s youngest uncle, Lord Renly, was many things to Brienne and would never, ever be many more. The first time she saw him was still clear as day in her mind. He’d ridden up to Evenfall Manor looking for all the world like a prince out of a story—tall, dark, and impossibly handsome. If that had been all there was to it, Brienne would have been safe. She’d known handsome men. Her first betrothed had been well-looking enough. He had also cried off when she was still a schoolroom miss. It was humiliating, but it taught her something that would serve her for the rest of her life. 

Brienne never had any illusions about her appearance. Even at twelve, she was freckled, long-faced, and bucktoothed. Her nose was crooked from where she’d broken it falling off of her horse while making a jump, and she was tall, too tall. Tall as a man and with shoulders nearly as broad. Age only made her taller and broader, even as it failed to significantly increase either her feminine graces or her bosom.

Mr. Ronnet Connington took one look at her after she was brought down from the nursery, and then threw the bouquet he’d brought at her feet with a sneer. It was then that Brienne truly understood for the first time what not being beautiful meant. Men would never love a woman as ugly as she. Men would have no time for her, no attentions, no use, and, all things considered, Brienne thought it a relief that she’d learned it so young. She could thus rid herself of missish fantasies about love and romance and focus on more realistic things: her seat on a horse and the precision of her shot and speed of her parries.

But Renly had been different. He’d smiled at her. He talked to her despite her halting conversation. He’d danced with her and never for a moment looked as if he wasn’t enjoying it. His visit had been brief, but when he left for London, Brienne was changed. When her father asked again, largely by rote after so much time, she finally agreed to have the Season she’d so long avoided.

It had not gone well. 

Within a month, Renly had become engaged to the incandescent Lady Margaery Tyrell, and the fact that Brienne had never truly expected an offer from him did little to dull that hurt. Brienne was a fair matrimonial prospect herself. Her father was a viscount, after all, and Evenfall Manor and all of his holdings would fall to her—his only living child. While her husband would not get the title, which would pass from her to her firstborn son, he would get everything else. But valuing her lands and wealth did not mean valuing Brienne herself.

The young bucks of the Ton had made a game of it, courting her in increasingly extravagant manners. At one point, there’d even been a bet on the books at White’s. A thousand pounds to the man who managed to seduce Brienne the Beauty. In time, when their falseness made itself clear and she could bear it no longer, Brienne issued her own challenge.

She’d walked into Dayne’s, the premier fencing club in London, and announced to all and sundry that any man who wished to pay her addresses would have to defeat her first. It had been Renly who stopped them removing her and Renly who even had his fiancée’s brother validate her challenge by being the first to face her. She had won and then, one by one, gone through every smug, laughing face that had told her cruel lies while mocking her behind her back. 

It had not stopped the ridicule. Indeed, the mockery only took on a different tack, but nothing could take away the satisfaction Brienne felt with a foil in her hand and a scowling man on the floor in front of her. Her time fencing had been the only bearable parts of that Season. The one she’d planned on being her only Season. But then she’d met Catelyn, Marchioness of Winterfell, and her plans changed.

Renly was no longer the only one outside of Evenfall ever to show her respect, but she still anticipated his coming to Town every year. Even if all he could offer her were smiles, a saved dance, and his unofficial sponsorship at the fencing club.

Baratheon House was still lifeless across the way when Brienne and Sansa were handed out of the carriage in front of the Stark townhouse that afternoon. Inside, however, there was better news for Sansa, at least. Their illustrious neighbor still had not called, but he had sent over his card (“As if we were the veriest strangers,” Lady Winterfell scoffed), which meant that he did not intend to cut them, at the least. Ever optimistic, Sansa also took it to mean that he would not be sending his regrets upon receiving the invitation to her swiftly approaching ball.

The rest of the day was dedicated to the planning of that event, set to take place a fortnight hence. A few weeks earlier, Sansa had been deeply disappointed when a letter came from the Winterfell estate informing her that her eldest brother, Robb, and younger sister, Arya, would not be able to attend. The Marquess and his wife had stayed behind to see to estate business before coming down to London, and Lady Arya had jumped at the chance to avoid a few extra weeks in a city she found unbearably dull. The original plan to join their family later, however, was halted by the Marchioness, who was increasing.

Sansa’s discontent could not be long maintained with the prospect of her very first niece or nephew looming on the horizon, and a few more days of planning saw her in perfect spirits again. She was utterly fixed on having the ball that officially introduced her to society compare favorably with the greatest routs London had ever seen. Lady Winterfell had more cautious hopes, but Brienne could see the pride she felt towards her daughter. Sansa was lovely as a flower and sweet as a song. It would take a fool not to see that she would be as big a success as Brienne had been a failure.

The promise of that success and the joy it would bring both Stark ladies was the only thing that kept Brienne’s spirits from vanishing entirely in the flurry of preparation. Weeks upon weeks of near constant reflection on a ball were a particular trial for one who could expect no pleasure from it. 

Brienne had never looked well in a dress, and she looked utterly ridiculous in ball gowns. Worse than that, unlike small dinner parties or card parties where she could sit unmolested with Lady Winterfell or hide herself as best she could, slouched in a chair over a hand of whist, at a function of this sort she would be expected to socialize and dance. 

She wasn’t an old maid or technically on the shelf, of low birth or insufficient fortune. Brienne was quite simply unmarriageable for obvious reasons that no one would yet say to her face. It was the dishonesty that bothered her most. She was expected to comport herself as an eligible miss, when all of society knew that she was anything but.

This time, even the pitiful relief that she could find in Renly’s smiles and laughter and in the one country dance he would stand up for with her was likely to be absent.

That evening, after dinner, they put the final touches on the invitations, which were to be delivered the very next day. Upon completing her share, Brienne begged pardon to retire early. In her bedroom, she dismissed her abigail as soon as her laces were undone. Only the fire in the hearth and the bright moonlight shining through the window lit the room as Brienne shed her dress and petticoats and drawers. In her chemise, she took down her hair, the long, thin, straw-like length that never properly held a curl, and flopped unceremoniously into the armchair near her window. 

She picked up the novel she’d been reading for the past few nights and canted it so that the moonlight illuminated the pages. Her governess, Miss Roelle, had only allowed books she considering improving, but Brienne had developed a taste for gothic novels as soon as she was free of the woman.

She lost herself in the lurid tale for quite some time, the fire dwindling to embers, until a flicker of movement at the corner of her eye pulled her from the drafty corridors of a haunted castle. Next door, through the top window in the triangle of those directly facing her own, a light had flickered into being. A candle, then another, and another lit until the whole place was awash with light and Brienne could see clearly into the room beyond.

There was rich, dark paneling and crimson paper on the walls. She could just make out the corner of a huge four poster. A bedroom, Brienne realized, just as a figure stepped up to the window.

He’d done away with his neckcloth already, and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. His crisp white shirt gaped open revealing both the place where his neck curved into his broad muscled shoulders and the incongruously delicate lines of his collarbones. His thick hair was slightly overlong and, though the moon painted it with streaks of silver, the light from his room revealed it for the pure, bright gold that it was. The angles of his face were starkly patrician, but not at all harsh, and even from this distance Brienne could not mistake the brilliant green eyes.

She knew he must be Jaime Lannister.

Jaime Lannister and the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

Brienne felt instantly disloyal to Renly for thinking it, and then ridiculous for that fidelity. Regardless of the worthiness of either feeling, she couldn’t look away. He stood motionless, hands on either side of the drapes, obviously having meant to pull them closed. Instead he stared out into the night, a distant look on his lovely face. He seemed unhappy, Brienne thought, profoundly so.

And then he looked at her.

He looked directly at her, piercing green eyes meeting hers across the distance, and wrinkled his brow. Brienne flew to her feet. She didn’t know why exactly. Perhaps her limbs had chosen to flee, but her brain hadn’t caught up yet. When it did catch up, however, it was only to realize that standing where she was, it was likely that the moonlight made her chemise all but transparent. Face heating, Brienne crossed her arms over her breasts and sat again.

He was still staring down at her. Then, he smiled.

The way the corners of his mouth turned up and his lips parted to show straight white teeth did not render his face any less beautiful.

Brienne recoiled all the same.

She’d seen that same smile a thousand times on the faces of what seemed a thousand different men. She knew every cruel angle by heart.

He was laughing at her.

Perhaps for her looks or size, perhaps her lack of grace. Perhaps for her attempts to conceal that in which he would obviously have no interest. Perhaps merely for gazing up, moonstruck, at the kind of the beauty she could never hope to as much as touch.

It didn’t matter. His eyes danced with mockery; his smirk was a jibe ready to be loosed. 

He was laughing at her.

Face, ears, neck, and chest all burning, Brienne grabbed at the curtains on the window and gave them one hard yank, plunging herself into darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Earl of Westland calls at last.

 

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

Responses to the invitations began to trickle in immediately the following morning. Sansa’s eyes sparkled at each affirmation from this Lord or that Lady, as it became increasingly clear that the ball might just turn out to be everything she wished of it. Brienne made valiant attempts to smile and appear interested as Sansa discussed how excited Miss Poole would be to hear that Lord Loras Tyrell had agreed to attend, but she was still disconcerted from the previous night’s encounter.

She had borne the mockery of many men before, so she did not know why this ate at her so. The vulnerability in his face had lulled her, perhaps. He had looked so terribly alone that she had, in those first stunned moments, felt a kinship. Or imagined it, more like. She could see no such thing in the look he’d turned on her.

The sound of the sitting room door opening broke into Brienne’s thoughts.

“Colonel Jaime Lannister, Earl of Westland,” announced the butler.

Lady Winterfell, Sansa, and Brienne all looked up simultaneously as the man himself strode into the room.

Brienne was forced to acknowledge that he was no less handsome in daylight. He cut a fine figure in tan trousers and shining top boots. His waistcoat was deep crimson, his cravat snowy white, and his coat a burnished gold color just off from his hair. He carried a swordstick negligently in his right hand; an identical pair of rubies served as the twinkling eyes of the golden lion adorning the handle.

He swept a graceful bow towards Lady Winterfell, a dazzling grin already on his face.

“My lady, it’s been too long,” he said in a sonorous voice that made the hairs on the back of Brienne’s neck stand on end.

Lady Winterfell’s smile was slight and her commonplace in response lacked sincerity. If it bothered the Earl of Westland, he gave no indication. He simply turned to bow over Sansa’s hand.

“Lady Sansa,” he said, “how radiant you are.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa replied sweetly.

Then, he turned to Brienne, his mocking green eyes alight with mischief.

“And do not think to tease that this is little Lady Arya before me.” He addressed the room, but his eyes did not leave Brienne as he looked her over in obvious and impolite appraisal.

“May I make known to you our dear friend: Miss Brienne Tarth,” Lady Winterfell said, making obvious in her tone that she took no pleasure in introducing anyone, much less someone dear to her, to Jaime Lannister.

He folded himself into another bow, this time over Brienne’s hand as he pressed a feather light kiss to her knuckles. All thoughts of propriety fleeing her, Brienne snatched her hand away. The horrible man only chuckled.

“Miss Tarth,” he said, his voice rumbling over her skin. “A pleasure.”

“Lord Westland,” she acknowledged tightly.

He shook his head. 

“Please, ‘Colonel Lannister’ if you might,” he cajoled.

Lady Winterfell implored him to sit and Sansa offered him refreshment—her eagerness to delve into conversation she might steer towards her interests apparent—but the earl was still focused on Brienne.

It was a herculean effort to keep her back straight, her chin high, as his gaze bored into her.

“Perchance, have we met before, Miss Tarth?”

Brienne’s response was from between clenched teeth.

“I think not, my lord.”

He grinned at her over the teacup he had accepted from Sansa.

“Are you certain? You will allow that you have an extremely… memorable face.”

Her memorable face heated at that and Brienne knew it had gone blotchy. The implied insult was nothing to the private embarrassment of the reference to what could, uncharitably, be seen as her spying on him. Jaime Lannister did not strike her as a particularly charitable man.

“What brings you here, Lord Westland?” Lady Winterfell asked sharply. She could not know of the more deeply buried meaning of his comment to Brienne, but she clearly disapproved of the insult she had gleaned.

He sat back in his chair, one ankle propped up on the opposite knee in a pose far too insouciant for a morning call.

“It seemed the neighborly thing to do,” he said, “and, of course, I wanted to accept your most generous invitation in person.”

Sansa gasped before a beatific smile broke over her face, making her the only person in the room who seemed genuinely pleased that the earl would be attending her coming out.

“I am delighted to hear it, my lord, truly!” Sansa exclaimed. 

“I am delighted to delight you,” he drawled, voice laced with irony. This was lost on Sansa, however, who barreled forward.

“Will you be bringing a party?” she asked.

“No, I’m afraid not,” he replied, and there was something hard in his eyes as he continued. “I’m in Town alone and I expect I’ll remain that way.”

Sansa was too well-bred to allow her disappointment to appear acute. She managed a credible smile as she spoke.

“Well, we expect quite a press so I’m sure you’ll be glad of the company.”

“Ecstatic.” Once again, his gaze fell on Brienne. “I hope both of you young ladies will honor me with a set.”

Including Brienne in the same sentence with Sansa in such a manner was a jibe in and of itself. Brienne’s hands bunched in the fabric of her morning dress as she stared at her lap. They might as well be different species, she and Sansa. Brienne knew this well. She didn’t need the likes of him to remind her.

He stood then, apparently satisfied that his duty was dispatched, despite only half the time of a proper call having elapsed.

“I’m afraid I have business to attend,” he announced flippantly, “so I must, regrettably, take my leave of you.”

He bowed to Lady Winterfell and to Sansa as they bid him farewell. Then, last, to Brienne, bending over her hand once more. She steeled herself, determined not to show him again that he had unsettled her. He did not kiss her hand this time, but spoke in tones low enough that only she would hear: “I’m sure we’ll see each other quite soon.”

He straightened and strode from the room, swordstick twirling idly.

That night, Brienne read in her bed by candlelight and kept the curtains on her window tightly drawn.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Sansa's ball.

 

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

Lady Winterfell had opened the entire ballroom for Sansa’s coming out ball, but a scant hour into the evening, the crush was still enough to make a sweat break out on Brienne’s skin. Sighing, she mopped at her brow with a lace handkerchief categorically not meant for any such actual use. It matched her gown, a demure, pale pink perfect for a debutante that still made Brienne feel no less like a lumbering bull amongst dainty, little flowers.

The crowd swirled around her, a flurry of brightly colored muslin and silk. Earlier, she’d attempted to squirrel herself away in a corner, but the press meant that she had not been relatively alone for more than a few minutes before people drifted close enough that it would have been rude for her to remain and not take her part in the conversation. Given that the group in question had been orbiting around Jaime Lannister, Brienne chose to abscond, cutting a path through the crowd until she could no longer hear the tinkling of laughter in response to each quip he let fly.

Normally, Brienne would have attached herself to Lady Winterfell for as long as she could, but the dowager was still standing at the receiving line with Sansa, smiling placidly as she greeted each guest. The one consolation there was that they wouldn’t begin the dancing until Sansa could join the festivities—the height of Brienne’s discomfort was thus postponed.

The guest of honor was resplendent in an appropriately pristine, white gown, trimmed with lace. Her hair was a pile of glossy auburn curls embellished with a single, highly fashionable feather. Sansa’s abigail had outdone herself and once again made Brienne feel pity for her own lady’s maid. The woman had long ago given up on encouraging Brienne’s recalcitrant hair into anything but a simple chignon.

Brienne moved in their direction, primarily for lack of anywhere else to go, but froze in her tracks a few yards off. She barely felt the people bumping into her as she watched the next guests in the line.

No matter how many times she experienced it, whether up close or at a distance, Renly Baratheon’s smile never ceased to stop Brienne’s heart. She’d wondered often if it was like to staring into the sun—brightness leading to pain eventually giving way to the relief of blindness. It had not proven so yet, and instead Brienne suffered with the ache it caused.

His coat was a blue so dark it was nearly black as his hair, and the complexity of his cravat’s fall was outmatched only by the intricate confection of rose-hued linen adorning the neck of Lord Loras Tyrell. The younger man stood to Renly’s left side, while his sister—Renly’s wife, Margaery—held her husband’s right arm. The siblings had matching sandy brown hair and delicately hewn features with the kind of beauty that drew stares. The three stayed there, speaking for quite a while with Lady Winterfell and Sansa, Loras paying particular attention to the latter, before the line forced them to proceed inside. Sansa drifted after them mere minutes later and Brienne watched, indecisive, as the girl enthralled them all with her easy grace.

The music started up soon after. Lady Winterfell had signaled the musicians upon Sansa abandoning the receiving line. Without hesitation, or regard for her already full dance card, Lord Loras led Sansa out onto the floor for the first set. Sansa doubtless acquitted herself spectacularly, but Brienne was not watching her. Instead, she stared at Renly and his wife as they joined the other couples, whispering to each other and throwing glances at Loras and Sansa when the dance brought them together. She stared until she could stand it no longer, then, finally, looked away.

When Brienne looked out to the floor again after the first set had wound down, Renly and the Tyrells had not returned Sansa to her mother. They had, however, spotted Brienne. An encouraging nod of Sansa’s head made the decision for Brienne, who could not possibly ignore it.

Her curtsey as she joined them was no clumsier than usual and Renly’s smile didn’t dim as he looked at her. It never did. It was one of the reasons why she… well.

“Miss Tarth,” he said warmly, “it’s been too long.”

“I— I didn’t know you were in town, Lord Renly,” Brienne replied, staring at the pin in his cravat, the starched points of his shirt collar, the sheen of his watch fob, anything rather than risk being caught again by his face.

“We’ve been staying with my brother-in-law,” he said, clapping Loras companionably on the arm.

Margaery smiled indulgently at them before turning to address Brienne with the same warm politeness that she always did. 

“We thought to open up Baratheon House at first, but…” she trailed off meaningfully.

At Brienne’s look of confusion, Renly stepped in.

“Things are a bit up in the air after Robert, may he rest in peace,” he said. “Thought it better not to deal with it.”

“I hope nothing’s too terribly wrong,” Sansa said, brow creasing with concern. Brienne wondered how much was Sansa’s natural empathy and how much was the fact that Lord Loras’s attentions had not yet made her entirely forget the errant Duke.

“You’d have to ask my brother Stannis about that,” Renly said jovially, “but come now, this is no topic for a happy occasion. The music’s started again.”

And indeed it had: over the dull roar of the crowd Brienne could hear the first strains of a reel.

“Miss Tarth?” Renly asked, and offered his arm.

There was nothing but to take it.

Renly led her out onto the floor just ahead of Loras—who was claiming a delighted Sansa yet again—for all the world as if Brienne was any other debutante and not who and what she was. She took her place in the line of ladies and Renly’s pleasant gaze was almost enough to make her forget how she towered over all present. 

Brienne was not an entirely graceless dancer and the energetic reel was forgiving. She even got a few remarks in when the dance brought them together, and Renly chuckled when she asked if she might see him at Dayne’s soon. The dance ended far too quickly, but Brienne asked to be deposited near the refreshments rather than back with the others.

There had been no major errors on her part, no embarrassments, but that could only hold for so long while Renly was still smiling at her in that way, while he was close enough to touch. It was best to quit while she was ahead. Renly swept her a bow before turning and heading back towards his wife. Brienne cradled a glass of lemonade in her hands, untouched, as she watched him walk away.

“Now there’s a hopeless infatuation if ever there was one,” said a too-amused voice from behind her.

Flushing, Brienne turned to see Jaime Lannister leaning against the doorway to the nearby veranda. Embarrassment was replaced immediately by rage.

“My lord, if you are implying that I would— I would ever harbor designs on a married man—“

He laughed, a rich, low sound. “No, I assure you, I was implying nothing of the sort.”

“Then, Lord Westland, I’ll thank you to keep your baseless observations to yourself.” She gave him her back, not caring how rude it was, and sipped her lemonade. It tasted of ashes on her tongue.

Was she really so obvious? Did everyone know how she felt about Renly? Was it another thing they all laughed about behind her back?

“Colonel Lannister,” he corrected, ignoring her obvious dismissal. “You’ve been avoiding me all night.”

“If I have been,” Brienne replied, facing him again, “you haven’t taken the hint.” She thought of him earlier that evening, surrounded by sycophants and admirers, holding court as easy as anything. Rude and ungentlemanly as he was, he could still fit in without effort. “Neither did you seem particularly bereft of company.”

In the moonlight spilling in past the glass doors, his eyes glittered like gemstones.  

“I like you better.” This time it was not anger or embarrassment that drove her blush. 

“Lord Westland,” she said, attempting indignation but falling far short. There was no force to it, her voice waxing and waning through the syllables.

“Colonel Lannister,” he insisted again.

“It is your preeminent title,” Brienne snapped. “Must you really plague me even as regards simple matters of etiquette?”

“Tell me, Miss Tarth, if you had a choice between a title handed to you like a party favor and one you actually earned, which would you prefer to use?”

So repugnant did Brienne find the idea of actually being in agreement with him that she was struck silent for a long moment, after which, she determined to ignore that rather distressing hiccup.

“Why are you even speaking with me, _Colonel Lannister_?” she asked.

“I’ve told you. Given the choices, yours is the company I prefer,” he said. “You don’t even pretend not to hate me. It’s refreshing. Though, I’ve hardly given you any reason.”

Less taken aback by this second inexplicable declaration of preference for her, Brienne snorted in a decidedly unladylike manner. Lannister’s teeth were white against the night.

“No reason? Is that really what you think?”

“No reason, I think,” he confirmed. “What have I ever done to you to earn that ire?” But as she opened her mouth, he raised one hand. “Acknowledging, of course, as regards matters of late night spying, that peering into bedroom windows went both ways.”

Undaunted, Brienne lowered her voice as she stepped forward to join him in the doorway so that they might not be overheard. She couldn’t imagine what anyone who saw them would think that the likes of she and Lord Westland had to _tete a tete_ about.

"Your sins are numerous and well-known, my lord. I’ve no interest in recounting them for you.”

“My sins?” He laughed. “Tell me, Miss Tarth, do you believe every rumor you hear or is it only the ones about me?”

“I don’t base my opinions on rumors,” she protested fiercely. Too fiercely.

“Ah, you do spend a great deal of time with Catelyn Stark.” He crossed his arms loosely over his chest, his posture, the flippancy in his voice, belying the hardness in his eyes. “I’m sure she’s regaled you with all kinds of tales. And, of course, no one can ever compare to the example of her sainted dead husband.”

Brienne’s fists clenched with the acute desire to strike him, not least because he was correct about the stories the dowager told of Lord Winterfell. Not that they were left unsubstantiated by the whole of society. “Lady Winterfell is a good, honest, honorable, Christian woman. Which is far more than I can say for the likes of you.”

This insult did not seem to phase him. “Of that I have no doubt. But Ned Stark… The very embodiment of honor and gentlemanliness, I’m sure you’ve been told.” He did not wait for her to confirm or deny it. 

“So honorable and gentlemanly he spent his life playing errand boy for useless sots like Robert Baratheon.” Real venom crept into his voice there, foreign and nearly frightening. “So honorable and gentlemanly he abandoned his wife for nearly a year to chase his sister and Rhaegar Targaryen across the sea at Robert’s command. So honorable and gentlemanly he raised his by-blow in his home with his legitimate children. So honorable and gentlemanly he likely broke your beloved Lady Winterfell’s heart doing it. A true paragon, indeed. Forgive me if I don’t live and die by his ever-loving widow’s evaluation of my worth as a gentleman.”

Brienne’s breath was coming hard and her nails would likely leave tiny half-moons imprinted on her palms.

“Whatever his failings, they are not Lady Winterfell’s. But your failings, they are all your own.” She turned from him again. “Good evening, my lord.”

She took one striding step before he reached out and clasped her hand. Even through her glove, against her will, her skin tingled, her blood rushing.

“Wait,” he said simply. Out in the ballroom, a line of couples was marching through the last few figures of a dance. Brienne stood and watched them as Jaime Lannister held her hand and, with that simple action, held her irrevocably in place. The couples filed from the floor before the musicians started up again and Lannister made a small sound of pleasure in his throat.

“Just as I thought: a waltz.” He headed towards the floor, tugging Brienne along with him. “Come, sweetling, I believe this is my dance.”

Brienne stood glaring at him when they reached the center of the room and tensed as he placed one hand lightly on her back.

“You do waltz, don’t you?” he asked.

“I am a woman grown,” she replied with more incredulity than was warranted given the only reason she knew how was that she’d been drafted to practice with Sansa. They’d spent no few afternoons spinning about in the parlor while the younger girl had still harbored futile hopes that she would be allowed to waltz in her first season.

Convincing herself it was just to spite him, Brienne rested one hand on his shoulder, and allowed him to grasp the other as they moved into proper position. She could feel the eyes on them, hear the whispers. Brienne stared straight ahead instead, focused wholly on the battle to be met in front of her.

Brienne took a deep breath, and moved. And stepped directly into Lannister. Their bodies were flush for a split-second. He wasn’t as tall as her, though he came closer than most. The half-hand’s breadth didn’t seem so large when his face was this close. Brienne scrambled back, skin heating.

“Do you mind terribly if I lead?” he asked.

Brienne scowled. His chuckle rumbled in his chest. It was as though she could feel it across the distance between them.

“I’ve asked about you, you know,” he offered a few minutes later, after they’d settled into a reasonably steady rhythm.

Brienne met his gaze, then averted her eyes. 

“Is there a particular reason you’re telling me so?”

Lannister shrugged, an unfairly graceful motion. She could feel the muscles of his shoulder moving beneath her hand.

“I thought you might like to offer information yourself.”

“No. Thank you.” The length of a dance had never seemed so long as it did now—now she was trapped by Jaime Lannister’s laughing eyes and warm hands.

“Well, that forces me to judge you based on the accounts of others. Unlike you, that’s not my preference.”

Brienne bared her teeth, not caring that his ability to cut with a smile far exceeded her own. “I’ve every confidence you’ll survive the ordeal.”

He continued as if she had not spoken. “It was quite dull, really.” He flexed his hand against her back as he guided her in a spin. “You’re aggressively uninteresting, all things considered.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Brienne growled.

“I did, however, eventually uncover one hint of life in the morass of tales about a staid, severe giantess. It is said that you fence at Dayne’s.”

Brienne’s spine straightened, her posture stiffening as her eyes narrowed. He would have done better to keep to his petty jibes. This was a path Brienne knew well and could withstand better than any other.

“What of it?” she asked. The change in her demeanor must have been visible. The grin broke across his face like the sun from behind storm clouds.

“I’ll be damned, it’s true. And you think you’re good too, don’t you?”

“Language, my lord,” she said sharply.

“If you’ve been parading around at Dayne’s, I’m sure you’ve heard far worse.”

It was true, though she was hardly going to admit it.

“I trained with Arthur Dayne himself, you know.” Everyone knew. “Do you think you could beat me?”

“I’ve never seen you fight.” Her even tone was a triumph. 

She’d been a popular amusement amongst the gentlemen of London early on. Repeated thrashings took the bloom off that rose. It wasn’t quite so funny to be continuously beaten by the big, beastly Beauty. It had been some time since most would deign to cross foils with her unless they were lately to Town or wanted to win a bet. The thirst for a true challenge was a constant agitation.

“Oh, you _are_ confident. That’s the straightest I’ve seen you stand all night.” His tone was as impudent as ever, but Brienne knew that spark of excitement in his eyes. Just as well as she knew it was reflected back in her own. “I’m afraid I already know the answer. But it _would_  be interesting to watch you try, and it’s been a long time since I’ve had a fight that was interesting.”

“Yes, it’s been quite a few years since you’ve struck a man down, hasn’t it?” Brienne asked, viciously pouncing on the rare opening. “Perhaps next time you can make it even more exciting by eschewing your family’s efforts to buy your way out of just punishment?” 

She immediately regretted it. Something changed in his face, became brittle, and as she heard the music winding to a close, she thought he might simply walk away. And stay away.

The twinge she felt wasn’t only about losing the chance to face him. Brienne was not a cruel person. Putting that look in anyone’s eyes—even Jaime Lannister’s—wasn’t something in which she could rejoice.

“That would be more difficult than you think,” he said, at last, recovering himself.

As the other couples began to drift from the floor, Brienne disengaged herself from his arms. He was studying her intently, and she felt herself blushing anew. He’d spent all night mocking her. He’d called at the Stark townhouse just to make her uncomfortable. He probably planned yet more humiliation with his invitation to spar. What right did he have to look hurt at her small, insignificant strike back?

“If your interest holds,” Brienne said. Her voice came out weaker than she would have liked. “You know where to find me.”

Then, she turned and walked away without even dropping a curtsey, heading towards the wall where the dowagers and matrons were congregating. Toward Lady Winterfell and decidedly away from the gnawing pit in her stomach and the itching between her shoulderblades.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day at Dayne's.

 

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

It was more than a week before Brienne was able to visit Dayne’s. In the wake of Sansa’s wildly successful coming out, the household’s social calendar was quickly filled. Everyone wished to have the company of the most eligible debutante in London. As such, it wasn’t until Sansa was off to spend the day visiting with Lady Margaery, and Lady Winterfell was regrettably abed with the headache, that Brienne was free to walk a few streets away from Mayfair and hire a hackney.

Brienne’s fencing was not a secret. Even had she wished it to be so, there was no way that the Starks could live in London and not hear about it eventually. While Lady Winterfell never expressed the excited interest that Arya and her younger sons did, neither did she offer any indication of disapproval. It was by no means a commonplace amusement for a young lady, though neither was it quite unheard of. There had been a signora just the year before, in fact, who had put on rather successful exhibitions, and certain Italian finishing schools were to said to offer formal instruction. But even had Brienne been the first and only lady in all of England, Scotland, and the Continent to pick up a blade, she knew Lady Winterfell would have reacted largely the same way. The older woman had, from the day they met, accepted Brienne wholly as she was. 

And it was for that reason that Brienne did whatever she could to spare Lady Winterfell and her family any additional embarrassment or discomfort. 

Brienne’s physical strangeness and her country upbringing invited society to expect eccentricity of her. Her family’s wealth and title allowed her not to be ruined by it. The Marchioness of Winterfell’s patronage ensured that she could travel in the rarified circles that were her birthright. None of that ever washed away the lingering guilt for being what she was: an oddity, never truly fit for the company with which she had been blessed. But there was no alternative to her nature; Brienne knew that all too well. She could, however, avoid taking a Stark conveyance to Dayne’s, avoid mentioning her trips there, and avoid forcing Lady Winterfell to acknowledge any of her unorthodox activities unless the dowager chose to do so. That would have to be enough.

When the hackney pulled up near Dayne’s, Brienne wasted no time paying the driver and marching straight through the entrance. The men at the door let her pass without comment, long accustomed to, if not approving of, her presence. She made no move to stop in any of the larger fencing rooms, ignoring a few words—likely insulting—called out to her as she passed. The men in those rooms would not face her with anything but jibes and taunting as all their peers looked on. One of the smaller, private rooms was where she trained and where anyone who actually wanted to fence with her knew to find her.

Brienne entered “her” room and left the door open—an ultimately pointless bow to propriety. She removed her gloves and set down her reticule before examining the well-tended foils, epees, and rapiers arranged along one wall. The club tolerated her presence because she was highborn, skilled, and the charter didn’t explicitly state that women were not allowed. They did not, however, extend her any courtesies. Brienne was provided no gear besides access to face masks—which she generally eschewed—and, of course, weapons. And even had she her own appropriate fencing kit—and in London, at the Stark townhouse, she did not—they also granted her no private area in which to change. She sufficed with wearing a simple military style riding jacket paired with divided skirts, and beat back her longing for the buckskin breeches and Hessians she most often wore to take her exercise at Evenfall. There were some things even she couldn’t get away with in London, and walking the streets in men’s clothing was one of them.

Brienne selected a foil and tested its balance before turning to one of the pells in the far corners of the room. She had spent many afternoons with no opponent other than the training post, working through forms and footwork, tireless and alone. It didn’t bother her. It truly didn’t. She knew every game people played from places like Dayne’s to sitting rooms to London ballrooms in the interest of excluding her, wearing her down, trying to stuff her into a mold that would never fit with the force of their derision. She couldn’t let it bother her or she would never be able to get out of bed in the morning.

But some days, such as when she could not help but remember the genuine excitement she knew she’d seen in a pair of bright green eyes, it was harder than others.

Brienne stabbed viciously at the pell, moved into a different stance and parried an imaginary blow before stabbing again. Then again. And again. She lost herself in it, forgetting all else but the determination that straightened her spine. If she was left to do nothing but basic exercises against a block of padded wood then she would do them until she had mastered them beyond what anyone ever had before. She grunted loudly, triumphantly, defiantly, as she aimed another vicious thrust, but stopped dead when her concentration was broken by a familiar voice.

“I would have to imagine that your opponent has been thoroughly vanquished at this point, my dear.”

Brienne didn’t turn, didn’t speak, not until she had unclenched her muscles and loosened her stance. Not until she was absolutely certain that Jaime Lannister would see nothing of her emotions on her face or in her form.

“My lord,” she said shortly, finally looking at him. Her curtsey was slight, only the smallest bend at the knee.

“Is that all the welcome I get then?” he asked. “When I’ve come to keep you company?” 

He already had a blade in hand, and it had clearly seen some use. His coat and waistcoat were nowhere to be found, though he didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed to be standing in front of her in his shirtsleeves. 

“I’d hoped you came to fight,” Brienne replied in as disinterested a voice as she could muster. She could see on his face that he was not fooled.

“Eager are you?” He moved to close the door. “Well, never let it be said that I did not do everything in my power to please a lady.”

“Leave the door open,” Brienne commanded.

He looked at her, eyebrow raised, though he stepped back from the door.

“Are you frightened that I might ravish you?” His smirk said clearly how absurd an idea that was. 

“Or, perhaps,” he continued, smirk transforming into a bright grin, “you fear the reverse! I can see it now: left without satiation by your late night peeking, struggling day in and out to control yourself, you invent the absurd pretense that you think yourself a match for me with a sword. All to get me to yourself in the hopes of claiming my virtue. You’re far more devious than I would have imagined.”

Brienne crossed to the center of the room, a grimace of a smile taking up residence on her face as she raised her foil in a salute. When it came down to it, he was just like all the others. Handsomer, more charming perhaps, even in his mockery, but still incapable of taking her seriously. Incapable of seeing anything when he looked at her but the punchline for a lewd joke. But he hadn’t walked away yet, and that was all Brienne needed to teach him a lesson, even if he wouldn’t accept its tenets.

“Have I amused you?” he asked brightly, as if he cared for amusing anyone but himself. He moved to stand opposite her at the center of the room as he spoke.

“Not you,” Brienne said. “Your like. All my life, men like you have sneered at me, and all my life I’ve been knocking men like you down.”

“There are no men like me,” he said with perfect seriousness. “There’s only me.” 

He saluted her, then dropped into a flawless stance. “ _En garde_ , Miss Tarth.”

Brienne’s typical strategy was one of patience. Men tended to attack her hard, recklessly, fixed on defeating her quickly to impress their friends or their own sense of worth. Often, winning a match was a simple exercise in allowing them to tire themselves out. That, however, required that their attacks did not cut through her defenses. Jaime Lannister’s first forward press was so lightning quick that keeping him from blooding her immediately was as much luck as it was skill on her part.

He didn’t stop there. Moving faster than he’d any right to, he drove her back, relentless, his blade like a living extension of his arm. Brienne struggled to keep her composure under the onslaught, keep her head clear enough to block or parry every strike as it came. Lannister moved with a grace, strength, and speed beyond her experience and he fought like nothing human. She’d heard stories of his skill, of course, everyone had, but she knew that people told many stories and very rarely were they based in truth. This seemed to be one of those singular exceptions.

He’d taken her in a full circuit around the room, her retreating, him advancing, before Brienne had her first opening to go on the attack herself. He brushed her tentative riposte away with a flick of his wrist. Brienne scowled. She couldn’t stand the idea that he was toying with her, laughing at her yet again. 

Ruthlessly, she pressed forward, not waiting for a large opening or a slowing down that might never come, at least not in time to make any difference. When she pressed her attack again, he defended well, but not casually. She thought, catching his eye, that he might even have been impressed. His next advance was measured as he tested her defenses more precisely, and Brienne realized that he wasn’t toying with her at all. His flurry of attacks had been unbelievable, amazing even, but still she had let none of them pass. He was fighting her in earnest.

The realization energized her, made the burning in her muscles fade, the beginnings of fatigue melt away. They circled each other, their footwork mirrored, moving in perfect complement. Thoughts of stalling and waiting fled Brienne. This was not a test of endurance or even ego, but one of pure skill. It was a dance as they traded off more evenly now, offense and defense, but from the frisson she could feel in the air between them, she knew that they were both enjoying it more than they ever had any waltz.

In this, neither of them led or followed. There were no prescribed motions. They invented their own patterns, created their own rhythm, and they met as equals, moving into each other and away from each other in perfect time. The pleasure she took from it was so great that Brienne briefly forgot that there were things with which she had to contend that Colonel Lannister did not.

It was a simple turning sidestep, part of a feint, when her skirts wrapped in the wrong way about her left leg. It wasn’t much, not enough to make her fall or even stumble. A stuttering step, however, was all it took to throw off the complex dance in which they were engaged. Brienne knew that he could see it just as easily as she felt it and, with resignation, she braced for the prick of his blade at her right side where it had been left open.

It did not come. His eyes had flickered down just once, a glance at her halfboots, and he paused.

Brienne hadn’t expected it of him. Some men thought to grant her reprieve—allowances that they would not offer other men, though it rarely occurred to them that other men did not operate with the restrictions that made them necessary. It happened only rarely. Most were put off enough by her that they thought that just about any hurt would serve to keep her in her place. She supposed Jaime Lannister had attempted to make clear that he was not most men. Of course, no one mistook Brienne for anyone but herself.

His split second pause and her misstep had brought them closer together than either would have allowed otherwise. Brienne took the opening. With one swift motion flowing into another, she brought her elbow up to smash dead center into his chest, then swept one leg out from under him. He went down with a thud and a loud “oof” as the breath was knocked out of him. The tip of Brienne’s foil was balance over his heart before he’d a chance to lift his head from the floor.

To her surprise, he spent the first breath that returned to him not on a protest or insult, but on a rueful chuckle.

“You spend so much time looking down your nose at me for not being a gentleman,” he said, “and then the instant I do something gentlemanly, you take advantage. Do you call that fair?”

“Not at all,” Brienne replied. “It is remarkably unfair that we are not bound by the same rules. You are a gentleman, and I am not. As I receive none of the privileges of that station, however, I do not see why you should begrudge me the rare and dubious advantages of the one I can claim.”

There was too much truth there, brought forth by her triumph and the rushing of her blood, to be shared with the last person she would have chosen. Brienne expected a quip, cutting and fierce. It did not come.

“You _are_ good,” Lannister said instead as he hoisted himself to his feet. “Particularly, as you’ve pointed out, for a chit.”

“A _chit_?” Brienne exclaimed incredulously.

His smile was already familiar to her. 

“A cracking big, damnably strong one,” he offered.

Absurdly, it sounded only half an insult on his lips, and when Brienne found her eyes wandering in the direction of that particular facial feature, she turned away.

“Care for a rematch once we’ve refreshed ourselves?” Lannister asked sportingly, and oh, how much she would. But her time alone had stretched on before he came to her, and Lady Winterfell would expect her prompt and presentable for tea. The energy that filled the air during their interlude had already drained away, the rest of the world seeping back into the room. Brienne returned her foil to its stand and retrieved her gloves.

“I must be going,” she said as she tugged the soft doeskin into place on her hands before fixing her reticule to her wrist. 

“I see,” he said. The disappointment in his voice sounded shockingly genuine, and Brienne could not bring herself to look at him and prove it false. Still, at the doorway she stopped and, unaccountably bashful, spoke without facing him.

“Another day, though, would be fine,” she said.

The pause before his response seemed interminable.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Brienne rushed out the door after that. She turned her face away as she walked past the other fencing rooms, blushing all the while, ridiculously, as though she had agreed to an assignation instead of a spar.

Outside and feeling the first twinges of soreness in her muscles, she offered a dirty-faced boy a shilling to find her a hackney. She stood, waiting for the boy to return. She was not alone for long. Even distracted by her rising fatigue, she knew her company before he spoke. A certain sort of petty malevolence could just be sensed.

“Well, if it isn’t the Beauty gracing us with her presence.”

Brienne neither responded to or acknowledged the sneering voice. As ever, that did not deter Mr. Locke. A perpetually run off his legs hanger-on, the man had initially taken a dislike to Brienne typical of that which most men did. It had become something altogether atypical after he’d lost no few bets leveled against her talent with a foil and been floored by her at a dinner party when he attempted to take liberties. He had treated her with a determined and focused cruelty ever since.

For her part, she did her best to ignore him, which was rarely as simple a task as she would wish it to be.

“I don’t think she’s listening to you, Locke,” piped up one of his ever-present lackeys. “Not even a curtsey.”

Locke’s breath was disgustingly moist near her collarbone as he leaned in closer so that no passers-by on the street could hear his foul words.

“I’ve often wondered,” he said, “if the big, dumb bitch is as deaf as she is ugly.”

Brienne focused her eyes on the street, on the grey afternoon sky, moving only to check if the boy yet approached with a hackney in tow. She shut herself away and heard nothing, gave no acknowledgement as Locke continued to speak, a stream of vile profanity and obscene jests spilling from his mouth. Protests or indignation would only spur him on. They were only words. Words were wind. They were all he could do and even then only when he found her without company and in a place where her complaints would be dismissed as what she deserved for daring to trespass.

So completely did Brienne close herself off from Locke’s assault that she jumped, startled, when another voice cut through the barrage.

“Honestly, Locke, your inability to perceive when a lady does not wish for your company would be amusing if it weren’t so pathetic.”

“Westland,” Locke said, through clenched teeth. But he stepped back from Brienne. “You have a loose definition of a ‘lady’ to call the Beauty thus.”

Lannister’s smile was a dangerous one and Brienne could barely recognize his eyes for the fury in them. He stabbed his swordstick viciously into the ground with every step as he came to her side.

“Not so loose as whomever names you a gentleman,” Lannister replied. The veneer of flippancy was thin. Tension buzzed in the air. “Her name is Miss Tarth.”

Locke looked as if he might say something else, but in a sharp motion, Lannister raised his swordstick and pointed the handle in the man’s direction. It was—had to be—an empty gesture, for emphasis, but Brienne couldn’t blame anyone for reading into the obvious threat emanating from the earl.

“Use it when you bid her farewell,” he continued. “I’m sure there’s a gutter outside of a gambling hell somewhere that needs to be crawled about in or a Bolton whose arse needs licking.”

Locke obeyed, though his mumbled farewell was barely audible. Before he had the chance to make a full retreat, however, Lannister spoke again.

“And Locke?” he said, voice full of false pleasantness. “If I ever see you speaking to Miss Tarth again, I will personally buy up every single one of your debts,  see you sent to a sponging house until you haven’t a single pence or possession left on this Earth, and then I will have you transported.”

Brienne stared at Lannister wide-eyed as Locke and his companions scurried away down the street.

Lannister shrugged, filling in his own question for her bemused look.

“My father has rather regrettably made it his business to own people who own people like him. They’re not all that difficult to manage.”

“Why did you do that?” Brienne asked, finding her voice. It strained credulity, reason, and good sense that Jaime Lannister of all men would, when none other ever had.

He looked at her, brow furrowed and irritation plain. Evidently, he didn’t think such a question warranted an answer. Instead his tone was almost scolding when he responded. “You ought to keep a footman with you when you’re waiting for your carriage to be brought around.”

“I’m not waiting for my carriage,” Brienne snapped, his clear annoyance with her making her irritated with him in turn. “And I haven’t a footman. Only a boy I paid to find me a hackney.”

He spun on her. 

“You hired a hackney cab to get here? Alone?” he demanded.

Brienne scoffed. “It’s nothing I haven’t done countless times before and won’t do countless times again.”

“Is that the boy?” he asked suddenly. Before Brienne could confirm that the child who’d just turned the corner at a run was the one, Lannister had taken off towards him and the plain black hackney trundling along the street apace.

Brienne followed, but even with her long strides, Lannister’s head start was enough that he had already pressed a handful of coins on both the boy and the driver and was waving them away.

“I have an appointment to keep, my lord!” Brienne exclaimed. “How am I to get home in a timely manner if you take it upon yourself to send away my transportation?”

He slanted a look of pure arrogance at her. “You do enjoy asking stupid questions, don’t you?”

Brienne was weighing the consequences of planting a facer on an earl in the middle of a busy London street when an elegant, high phaeton in shades of crimson stopped in front of them.

“On the back, Peck,” Lannister called out to the groom reigning in the two beautiful greys. “I’m seeing Miss Tarth safely home.”

Then, before she could articulate a protest, he’d taken her arm to help her into the phaeton. Brienne decided that when it came to Jaime Lannister, she was clearly going to have to get used to picking her battles. Then, she considered how absurd an idea it was that she would ever have need to get used to him in any fashion.

Lannister jumped up after her and, once his groom was fixed on the small seat in the rear, they set off. The phaeton was, of course, perfectly sprung and Lannister was, of course, an excellent whip. Every bit of his skill was on display as he drove hell-for-leather all the way back to Mayfair. Not that Brienne intended to admit that he’d gotten her back far earlier than she’d dared to hope a hackney would.

She did attempt to politely hide her relief when he declined her obligatory invitation to tea. Brienne would count herself a happy woman if she never had to be the one to explain Jaime Lannister descending on the Stark house to Lady Winterfell, much less be the reason for it. Even if, she had to admit, some portion of that lady’s assessment of the man was clearly inaccurate.

He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner when Brienne jumped down from the phaeton herself instead of waiting for him to hand her out of it, but he still got out and offered his arm as he accompanied her to the door. Brienne felt as if every window in every townhouse in the square must have someone peering out of it, staring at them and whispering. If he was insulted by how quickly she reclaimed her hand as they approached the door, it didn’t show on his face.

Lannister merely tipped his hat and sketched her a bow, the placid, inscrutable smile she remembered from Sansa’s coming out ball back on his face. Brienne averted her eyes as she curtsied back. If he was a mystery, it was not for her to solve.

Still, before he turned away and headed back down the path, Brienne reached out and lightly touched his arm.

“Thank you,” was all she said before rushing past the butler and into the foyer.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An altercation.

 

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

It would not have been entirely accurate to say that the household was surprised when Colonel Lannister called at the Stark townhouse with the express purpose of inviting Brienne for a drive. The word “surprised” seemed rather lukewarm for the potent mixture of shock and utter confusion that ensued.

Lady Winterfell stared at him from across the sitting room, her normal seething dislike replaced by bemused suspicion. Brienne’s previous negative experiences with gentleman callers had not taken place while she was a guest of the Starks, but the dowager knew what Brienne had endured for the duration of that awful wager. Sansa did not know and, innocent of such a context, could clearly only imagine the most mundane of reasons for such an invitation. Brienne could practically read it on her face as she shifted from confused disbelief that Colonel Lannister had come to call upon Brienne to girlish excitement at the idea of even the most unlikely of candidates attracting such a suitor. She slanted Brienne a knowing look, and Brienne recognized the undoing of all her efforts to assure her young friend that her previous interactions with Colonel Lannister were completely unexceptional.

Brienne was much less certain of what to think than either of her hosts. Sansa attributed him pure, if utterly improbable, motives. Lady Winterfell clearly suspected him, as ever, of foul intent. Brienne simply wished to ask him what he was playing at directly and, not for the first time, resented the rules of etiquette that prevented her from doing so. She reached further and bent more than most people she’d ever met, and still the amount of freedom it afforded her was frustratingly limited.

It was Sansa who recovered from Colonel Lannister’s proclamation first.

“Oh, in your smart, little phaeton?” she asked in rapturous tones. “I’m sure she would love to!”

Lady Winterfell tapped her fan on Sansa’s wrist, a silent warning, before tossing a questioning look at Brienne. Brienne was of age and, though Lady Winterfell was technically charged with her chaperonage, she was not Brienne’s guardian and did not seek to be so. She rarely commanded. It was obvious what she would prefer Brienne to do, but she sought only to know Brienne’s own preference.

If Brienne could but be entirely certain herself.

“Y— yes. I would like that,” she said, after an awkward pause. Any attempt to replicate Sansa’s excitement had fallen far short, but Colonel Lannister did not seem to mind.

“Capital,” he declared.

Still, she half expected him to be gone when she returned from changing her slippers and submitting to her abigail’s fluttering about as she selected an appropriate bonnet and spencer. (She had also been made to submit to her abigail’s pouting when Brienne refused to change out of her simple morning dress.) But he was in the foyer, swordstick and hat in one hand, waiting patiently.

They were in his phaeton, taking off down the street, when Brienne could stand it no longer.

“What on Earth are you doing?” she demanded.

“Driving,” he replied.

“I can see that, but why? Why are you driving _me_  and to where?”

“About the park,” he said. “Weren’t you listening? Honestly, if you just hie off with any man who offers without even knowing where you’re headed, I’ve even more reason to be here than I thought.”

Brienne sighed. “Where are we really going?”

There were many young ladies who rode about Hyde Park with fashionable and handsome men in their fashionable and handsome conveyances, seeing and being seen, letting all of society know their interests and the direction of their attentions. Brienne was not, had never been, and would never be one of them.

They slowed, pulling up behind a trundling  wagon, before he replied.

“Since you haven’t enough good sense not to run about London in hackneys, I thought I’d take you myself as, fortuitously, where you wish to go is where I am also going.”

“To Dayne’s?” She stared at him.

“I knew you’d catch on eventually.”

“But why? Why do this for me?” She stared down at her lap, face heating, unable to entirely chase away the thoughts of what could be read into his interest. “What— what do you want?”

“Honestly, chit, you live next door to me, I visit Dayne’s twice a week either way, and you’re the only remotely interesting sparring partner I’ve had in a twelvemonth or more.” He slanted a look at her out of the corner of his eye and carried on, glibly. “Try not to assign me any outrageous motives. I assure you I haven’t any.”

“I should certainly hope not,” she said, voice rough with her attempt to beat back emotions she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—identify. “And I also hope you know I will not be going anywhere with you twice a week.” She looked away from him to stare out at the buildings they passed. “People would talk.”

“Once a week then,” he said with an exaggerated groan. “Christ, you’re fastidious, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Language, my lord,” Brienne said.

He chuckled, his expression merry, and for the first time in a very long time, the twinge Brienne felt at a man’s laughter wasn’t one of pain.

 

He kept to his promise, calling every six or seven days to abscond with her to Dayne’s where they would spend wonderful hours crossing blades. He was still the best swordsman she’d ever seen, and her first win was not repeated with much regularity. But he did not make her feel poorly for it or take back his compliments about her skill. He offered corrections, made suggestions, was even encouraging, and Brienne began to understand his teasing for the largely benign thing it was.

It was still awkward, sometimes, to go about Town with him, but Brienne could not deny his worth as a companion. When they were fencing or, some nights, chatting through their windows across the distance between their townhouses, it was comfortable. When he made silly jests and she allowed herself to laugh, she could pretend that she wasn’t who she was and he wasn’t who he was and that they were actually friends. She couldn’t understand what Colonel Lannister himself got out of the arrangement as she was certain, regardless of what he said, there was no lack of skilled fencers who would love to have him as a regular partner. He certainly could have socialized with his choice of London society. Still, she never asked again after that first day. Brienne knew from long experience that were she to examine it too thoroughly she might very well dislike what she found.

Often, it wasn’t that hard to believe that she truly was his only companion in London. Colonel Lannister knew everyone and everyone knew of him, but he didn’t seem to spend much time with anyone but her. There were no other gentlemen he appeared to have a close relationship with; no ladies with whom he’d recently been connected, inappropriately or otherwise. If he belonged to White’s or Brook’s or some other gentleman’s club, he never went there. He’d mentioned his brother, off on the Continent, sometimes, deep affection writ plain on his face. Once, she’d seen him sent into a cold fury when a few fellows at Dayne’s said some ungentlemanly things about his cousin, the Duchess of Kingsland. But still none of his family joined him in Grosvenor Square.

To the best of her knowledge—and her observation was ever closer than she would like to admit—Colonel Lannister spent the sum of his time riding either on horseback or in his phaeton, making appearances at events that were yet brief enough to curtail any attempted matchmaking, and fencing. With her. No few ladies had even approached her, attempting to gather intelligence on the elusive matrimonial prize from his unlikely yet undeniable favorite. But beyond putting to rest their incredulous suppositions that he was courting her, Brienne had little to offer even if she’d wished to.

He remained a mystery, a charming smile, a sarcastic word, and a surprisingly decent fellow, but not one with whom she was on intimate terms. Even so, Brienne enjoyed their association more than she had most things in all her previous Seasons. She could have pushed, perhaps, dug deeper until she could uncover that echo of despair she’d seen in the window that first night—the echo that a few sporadic instances had proven to her was not her imagination—but the simple truth was that she didn’t want to risk the balance they’d attained. It was important to her.

“You’re getting better on the riposte,” Colonel Lannister declared. As Brienne had just landed a hit directly above his heart, she thought it a minor allowance.

“Thank you, my lord,” she responded flatly, knowing he would understand what she left unsaid.

His grin proved her right, but he only said, “I believe we ought to be going.”

They’d already stayed too long. A dinner party at Tyrell House meant that no one would bother with formal tea at the Stark residence, but it still wasn’t quite seemly for Brienne to return too late in the evening. Not least because she needed time to dress for the outing. Once they’d stowed their weapons and sent Colonel Lannister’s groom for the phaeton, the sun was already setting. It painted the uncommonly clear sky in a breathtakingly rich profusion of violets, pinks, and golds. Brienne blamed that air of romance for the fact that she accepted Colonel Lannister’s arm when he suggested they take a turn as they waited for the phaeton to be brought around. Brienne had walked beside him in such a situation a half a dozen times, but she rarely took him up on his rote courtesy. She was too practical, too aware of how things stood, to ever truly be in danger from him or any other man, but sometimes, with Colonel Lannister, extra precautions did not seem amiss.

They walked along what had become a regular route, a full circuit of the block that contained Dayne’s, a few boxing salons, and at least one slightly less-than-respectable establishment. Colonel Lannister’s chatter was a constant buzz, requiring little in the way of response from Brienne. She scolded him about loving the sound of his own voice too well, but not being expected to bestir herself and attempt cleverness or wit when she had nothing to say was a comfort. Colonel Lannister had just startled a laugh out of her with a likely embellished tale of mischief he’d gotten up to at Eton when he stopped walking of a sudden, forcing Brienne to a pause as well. They’d turned the third corner in their ramble, and the low glow of the street lamps illuminated the path that would take them back to the street where Dayne’s resided. Three lights down, a group of men were ambling in their direction.

Brienne felt Colonel Lannister tense, an awareness shooting through him, and a matching tension snaked through her limbs as well. They began walking again a moment later, in unison, but Colonel Lannister’s chatter had entirely ceased. As they closed the distance, Brienne could clearly see at least one of the men’s eyes on her, a leer twisting his face. Colonel Lannister drew her closer.

When they met the men, Brienne hoped for a scant moment that she and Colonel Lannister both were being overcautious and they would pass without incident. The men immediately spread out, making it impossible for Colonel Lannister and Brienne to continue without shoving through them, and Brienne cursed her own naiveté.

“If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen,” Colonel Lannister said firmly, stressing the word “gentlemen” in a telling manner.

The man at the center of the group—which numbered five—shook his head as he gave Colonel Lannister an ugly grin.

“Don’t think we will, guv.”

“My good man, I assure you that you and your associates could find a far more profitable and safer occupation than attempting to rob us,” Colonel Lannister said, all easy confidence. “I am the Earl of Westland and a Lannister, which means that you will be sure to hang for any transgression against my person. And I’m not even carrying anything of especial value. Doesn’t seem worth it, I’d think.”

“Nothing of especial value? Quite a rude thing to say about your, uh, lady there,” said the man. The others laughed.

Colonel Lannister reclaimed his arm from Brienne to set his hand on the head of his swordstick. Brienne widened her stance, the movement mostly hidden by her skirts, and cursed the fact that she had no weapon of her own.

“Move,” Colonel Lannister commanded. “I’ll not ask again.”

“Doesn’t much seem you asked that time,” the man replied. “Tell you what, guv, you can go right on. Your friend though, she stays with us.”

With a flash, Colonel Lannister drew his blade, its silvery surface glinting even in the low light, and the time for talk was done. Three of their attackers also managed to produce clubs and blades before Colonel Lannister advanced on them, but only just. Colonel Lannister brushed off the attack of the first that reached him and gave him a shove that sent him stumbling away before moving to parry the next who advanced with a huge knife. Brienne dove for the first man, grabbing his wrist while he was off-balance and using her sheer strength to overpower him and wrest the blade from his hand. She struck him hard across the head and he slumped to the ground. 

Colonel Lannister was facing two of the remaining men, dancing back and forth between them as he parried and dodged their sloppy attacks. They both already had multiple cuts from Colonel Lannister’s blade, bright spots of red coloring their clothing. Another man hung back, his only weapon a far smaller knife that he seemed wholly unwilling to tempt fate with. The final man looked half ready to flee.

Brienne approached the man with the knife. Evidently finding her less intimidating than Colonel Lannister, he lunged. Brienne dodged easily and opened a slice along his arm as he passed. He screamed, dropping his knife as he clutched at his profusely bleeding wound. One of Colonel Lannister’s two opponents had pulled back and was attempting to shuffle to one side, clearly hoping that flanking Colonel Lannister would even the odds. Brienne pressed down on him, catching his blade before he could attempt a strike at Colonel Lannister’s right side. He was not unskilled, she could tell immediately, but he was definitely outmatched. His footwork was weak and Brienne circled him, pricking his side to discourage him from continuing this.

One of the others was cursing and yelling, but the import of  his words registered too late.

“He said take the big bitch. He didn’t say nothing about no swell!”

“Just end it!” came the reply.

Brienne disarmed her opponent and turned in the direction of the commotion just in time to see the pair of battered dueling pistols trained on her. The stunned man she’d marked to run off had recovered. Brienne didn’t hear Colonel Lannister yelling her name until he’d already thrown himself in front of her.

His shout of “Brienne!” mixed and warped with the deafening sound of the gunshots, impossible to separate. Colonel Lannister stumbled forward into her, his blood seeping through her bodice. She heard a scream, but didn’t realize that it was her own until she’d already lurched forward, still supporting Colonel Lannister against her with one arm, and drove her stolen blade through the neck of the gunman. The two men still standing fled at last, as Brienne sank to the ground, lowering Colonel Lannister with her. His breathing was shallow and his gaze was hazy. He trembled as Brienne pressed her hands desperately against his wounds trying to staunch the stream of blood soaking his chest and running down his right arm.

The man whose arm she’s sliced open was attempting to half stumble, half crawl away, no apparent thought spared for his unconscious associate or the dead one lying on the street. No one else was visible in any direction she looked, so, without other recourse, Brienne opened her mouth and yelled into the night for help.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The longest nights on record.

 

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

Peck found them almost immediately, already curious about his master’s unusually lengthy absence. In the end, it took both his and Brienne’s efforts, and the assistance of a Lieutenant Marbrand who happened upon them, to get Colonel Lannister back to the Lannister townhouse. Peck had been sent for a surgeon as soon as Lieutenant Marbrand procured the use of a coach to transport the earl. It was slower, but presented far fewer logistical difficulties than attempting to drive Colonel Lannister back to Mayfair in his high phaeton. Peck had not arrived before them, and Brienne followed along numbly as a pair of footmen conducted Colonel Lannister to his bedchamber. The flow of blood had slowed, but Brienne didn’t know whether to count that a good thing. He’d fallen all the way into unconsciousness during the journey, and he looked pale and uncommonly small now tucked into his fourposter.

It was her fault. The men had been after her; they’d said so. She hadn’t been alert enough and Colonel Lannister had suffered for it. Brienne could barely consider it beyond those simple facts, but she tried to answer Lieutenant Marbrand’s questions about the attack before he left to notify the authorities. Peck arrived with the surgeon mere moments after Lieutenant Marbrand had departed. 

Doctor Qyburn was a small, balding man with a calm air and a contemplative look. He did not try to make her leave the room and asked intermittent questions while he worked, though sometimes she felt he didn’t seem especially interested in the answers. Colonel Lannister’s low groans filled the room as Doctor Qyburn tended him, producing a bullet in a few minutes. He cleaned  away the blood and heavily bandaged the wounds before lining up half a dozen tonics and tinctures and explaining to Brienne how and when to administer them. If he cared who she was or why she was there at Colonel Lannister’s bedside, it didn’t show. Perhaps he simply assumed she belonged there. There was, Brienne reflected, a first time for everything.

“And a drop or two of laudanum if he has excessive pain,” Doctor Qyburn instructed. 

Then, he was gone. Brienne slumped into the armchair arranged near Jaime’s bed, suddenly weary. There were things she should do, she knew, but no course of action presented itself as she sat there, staring at Colonel Lannister’s still form. She couldn’t say how much time passed before the decision was made for her.

The butler appeared at the door to the attached sitting room and cleared his throat.

“A visitor, uh, Miss,” he said in careful tones, clearly both skeptical at the authority on which she was commanding the household and unwilling to challenge her directly.

“What?” Brienne asked, still dazed.

“From next door, Miss.”

She shot to her feet, feeling an utter fool. The Starks, the dinner party; how many hours had come and gone? They must have had no idea what had become of her. She hadn’t even thought to send over a note. Brienne followed the butler as he led her through the halls at what seemed an indecently slow pace. They finally arrived and Brienne all but crashed through the doors in her haste.

Lady Winterfell perched, straight-backed, on a deep red sofa, but came to her feet, wide-eyed and raised one gloved hand to her mouth when she saw Brienne. Brienne was confused for a heartbeat until she recalled that while she had accepted a cloth with which to clean her hands, the bodice and sleeves of her dress were still spattered liberally with blood.

“My dear girl, what’s happened to you?!” Lady Winterfell exclaimed.

Brienne held out a placating hand.

“It’s-it’s not mine- Jai- Lord Westland he-“

Lady Winterfell swept forward and grasped the hand that Brienne had held out, then with more strength than Brienne would have credited, pulled her towards the sofa.

“Sit down, child,” she instructed. “And start slowly.”

Brienne obeyed. At length, she explained what had happened: their walk, the attack, Lieutenant Marbrand’s assistance, even the doctor’s orders. Lady Winterfell listened patiently all the while, never releasing Brienne’s large hand from her grip.

“You poor child,” she sighed, when at last Brienne came to the end. “Do you have all your effects? You need a long bath and a longer rest, come.”

“I— I can’t _leave_ ,” Brienne protested.

“Well, you certainly can’t stay here, dear.” At Brienne’s indignant look, Lady Winterfell sighed. “I am sure that you feel… grateful to Westland for what he did for you, and you should, but you cannot remain alone in a gentleman’s residence.”

“He’s been _shot_ ,” Brienne said, voice raising. “And he’s unconscious!”

“Unfortunately, that will not matter if it gets out that you spent the night with him.” She pursed her lips. “Particularly given your well-known…association with him.”

“I won’t go,” Brienne said. 

“He will be well cared for, I’m certain—,” Lady Winterfell insisted.

“By whom?” Brienne broke in. “He has no one. No one in London at all. No one is here but a few servants.”

Lady Winterfell didn’t look angry, only pitying. That made it worse. That she thought Brienne some silly girl besotted by an act of gentlemanly heroism. Perhaps she was silly. She knew now, after these last few terrible hours, that she definitely felt more for Jaime Lannister than she ought, but none of that had any bearing on this. She owed him a debt. She would not leave him alone.

She met Lady Winterfell’s gaze, unwavering, and, at last, the older woman looked away, expelling a long breath.

“You, sir,” Lady Winterfell said and the butler appeared immediately at the door. “Have rooms made up for myself and Miss Tarth, and have a bath drawn for Miss Tarth as well. I’ll also need pen, paper, and a footman to carry notes.”

Evidently, a marchioness’s authority was not to be even subtly questioned, because the butler moved to do her bidding without hesitation or extraneous comment. Relieved at her victory, Brienne watched Lady Winterfell sit at the mahogany writing desk that the butler indicated, for all the world as if she had never planned to do anything else.

“Sansa’s already gone ahead to the Tyrells’, I’ll have to ask Lady Margaery to see her home safely.” The nib scratched along the paper as Lady Winterfell spoke quietly, mostly to herself. “I’ll also need to speak with the housekeeper. You will need more clothing, of course. Your maid can bring some things over for you. Have you eaten?”

Brienne started at being posed something that warranted a response before mumbling a ‘no’. A housemaid scratched gently at the doorjamb, then curtsied before offering to show Brienne her bedchamber.

“I’ll have some food sent up,” Lady Winterfell assured her, waving a hand briefly in dismissal.

The weariness had settled into Brienne’s bones once more, so she did not resist.

“Thank you, my lady,” she said, executing a respectful curtsey.

Lady Winterfell nodded brusquely. “We’ll talk more in the morning,” she said as Brienne followed the maid out the door.

  

By the next afternoon, Colonel Lannister had improved enough to be moved. Brienne did not entirely approve of the plan to do so, but given her unwillingness to leave him and Lady Winterfell’s unwillingness to leave her with him, reconvening at Stark House seemed the best option. Colonel Lannister himself lodged no objection.

He’d returned to consciousness of his own accord that morning, if briefly. He was awake just long enough to take a bit of broth upon which Brienne had stubbornly insisted and to make an extremely inappropriate and bleary-eyed jest about protecting Brienne’s virtue. He was still weak when they stirred him for the move, though he did a credible job of making sure that his footmen needed only assist him instead of carry him wholesale. For that bit of bravado, he slept through the rest of the evening and late into the following morning.

Lieutenant Marbrand visited that night and related his dealings with the constables. Another of the men, in addition to the three—injured, unconscious, and dead—that had been left on the street the night of the attack, had been apprehended. It had taken very little to work out that they had been hired by Mr. Locke. Lieutenant Marbrand was too polite to specify what they’d been told to do with Brienne, and she did not press him. Locke’s motivation appeared to have been twofold: according to his lackeys, Colonel Lannister’s setdown on her behalf had infuriated him and, unable to retaliate against the man himself without fear of retribution, he, as he ever had, focused his ire on Brienne. When his luck once again ran sour, the chance of fixing an upcoming fencing tournament at Dayne’s in his favor by assuring Brienne’s absence was all the extra push the man needed to take steps.

Locke compounded his guilt by fleeing upon hearing that Colonel Lannister had been injured instead of Brienne, but Lieutenant Marbrand had taken it upon himself to hire a Runner to track him down. Colonel Lannister, he revealed, had been a friend of his at school. Brienne thanked Lieutenant Marbrand for them both and meant every word.

Colonel Lannister was, as to be expected, flippant when Brienne related all to him the next day.

“He targets you because he’s too craven to stand against me, but ends up getting me shot anyway. Really, his ineptitude is verging on the unbelievable, don’t you think?” he’d said, then winced upon laughing at his own joke.

Brienne had not been amused, not least because he was clearly in enough pain to require a dose of laudanum. The third day saw him much improved, almost restless in the sprawling bedchamber in which he’d been situated. (Lady Winterfell might not have liked him very much, but she would never deny any guest the full brunt of her hospitality.) 

Brienne took her luncheon with him—with the door wide open and her lady’s maid present for the whole, of course. Later, she and Sansa, who found the entire affair the height of excitement and romance—much to Brienne’s chagrin—took turns reading to him and attempting to remain straight-faced at his quips about the content of their chosen reading material.

That night, the fever set in.

Colonel Lannister’s valet, who had accompanied him from next door, did not alert Brienne until the wee hours—after he had cast up what little he’d consumed over the last few days and then kept retching. He was restless beyond that, and Brienne needed only take one look at him to send for Doctor Qyburn. The doctor dosed Colonel Lannister with laudanum and announced that while the wound in his shoulder that had bled so excessively was fine, the lesser wound farther down, where the bullet had grazed him just above his elbow, was infected.

“It would be safest to take off the arm,” the man said matter-of-factly.

“I’ll die first,” Colonel Lannister groaned. He looked terrible, sweating and glassy-eyed, but there was no mistaking his forceful tone, even as the laudanum began to do its work.

“If I do not the infection could very well spread through his blood and into his heart,” Doctor Qyburn told Brienne, turning away from Jaime as if he weren’t there.

“I said… no,” Colonel Lannister murmured. He reached out and snatched at Doctor Qyburn’s coat with his left arm, managing quite a credible grip.

“My lord, please,” Brienne said as she freed the doctor. Colonel Lannister’s response was an incomprehensible mumble.

“I can work quickly,” Doctor Qyburn informed her. “It will be done in—“

“No,” Brienne said.

“Miss, you likely do not understand the seriousness of the situation—“

“Will he die? Absolutely, unquestionably, if you do not?” she asked, more calmly than she felt.

“No, but—“ Doctor Qyburn began.

“Then do something else. He does not want it. You will heed his wishes.”

Doctor Qyburn eyed her for a long moment, then rubbed at his chin.

“I can cut away the infected flesh,” he said. “It is a delicate business, however, and there is no guarantee it will be successful, or that it will not injure his arm further.”

“But he will still have an arm,” Brienne said. Qyburn nodded, just once, and retrieved his large satchel.

Brienne had thought it difficult before to see Colonel Lannister so ill, looking small and weak—so lacking in the bright vitality to which she was used. She would have preferred to endure that a thousand times over than to hear the way he screamed as Doctor Qyburn cleaned his wound. He screamed and he screamed until his voice went hoarse and Brienne had to summon men to help hold him in place as the doctor worked.

Blessedly, he passed out before the end, pain and shock doing what the laudanum could not alone. Doctor Qyburn continued the entire time, without pause or hesitation, and admired his work after with a casual tilt of his head.

“What now?” Brienne asked, trying to swallow back sudden, fierce distaste for the man.

Doctor Qyburn did not look at her as he carefully cleaned and packed up his tools. “Under these…circumstances,” he said, making clear in his pause where he assigned blame for said circumstances, “I’ve done all that I can. Do your best to keep him fed, watered. Either the fever will break and he will recover or it will not and he will pass. There is only waiting.”

He departed without another word.

 

For the first few days, as the fever raged on, Brienne arranged shifts to look after Colonel Lannister. His valet took some and so too one of the maids from next door, called Pia. Brienne did as well, in defiance of Lady Winterfell’s clear concern. She was not a nurse, the older woman pointed out, nor any relation. She had already done so much, more than could ever be expected. She did not need to place her entire life on hold because Jaime Lannister was ailing. All that could be done was being done. But Brienne could not bring herself to go about in society, take tea and nuncheon, and go out for ices as if a man, her friend, was not fighting for his life upstairs.

It took only a few days before the others’ shifts shrank and Brienne’s time spent caring for Colonel Lannister grew. He was often delirious, and nigh uncontrollable as he thrashed about in the grip of nightmares only he knew. Brienne was the only one who seemed to be able to calm him, to get him to swallow thin broth and water from time to time. Nearly a week passed before Brienne found out why.

He was mumbling, as he often did, while she bathed his face and as much of his chest as she dared with a cold cloth. She didn’t know what time it was, it was ever easier to lose track, but she was tired. Tired enough that when he grabbed at her hand, she didn’t resist.

“Please,” Colonel Lannister whispered hoarsely, clutching her fingers. “Cersei. Don’t— don’t— I’ll _protect_  the children. I swear.”

“We belong, Cersei. _Cersei_ ,” he moaned piteously as Brienne, feeling a great hollowness open within her, wrenched her hand away. 

Her governess had always told her she was slow, but even she recognized the answer to the riddle that had lay at the core of Jaime Lannister since the night they met. Brienne only knew of one Cersei and, she imagined, all the pieces slotting into place, Colonel Lannister only knew one himself.

It didn’t hurt. Brienne had viciously expelled anything that felt like an expectation. She’d never indulged in ridiculous fancies. She’d barely allowed herself to count them as friends. So, it didn’t hurt that when he felt her touch and was soothed, when he reached for her, it was because he imagined her to be someone else entirely.

She wouldn’t let it.

Well into the second week, Brienne’s responsibilities had lessened dramatically. The violent bursts of delirium and activity had given way to a fugue as achieving consciousness at all slowly became almost more than Colonel Lannister could manage. He barely woke anymore and while he didn’t cast up his accounts with such regularity, it didn’t much matter as he could hardly even attempt to take any nourishment. They had not called Qyburn back. He’d been clear enough that first night and the note he sent back upon being informed that Colonel Lannister had taken a turn did not deviate. Whether they were waiting for him to get better or to waste away made no difference.

“I believe we have a responsibility,” Lady Winterfell said carefully. It was early afternoon and Lady Winterfell had quite deliberately sent Sansa off to Hyde Park with Lord Loras and his sister. Brienne knew from the way Lady Winterfell had looked at her across the breakfast table that she planned to speak to her about just this.

“I can pen the letters myself,” the marchioness said, but Brienne shook her head. Colonel Lannister had aggressively refused to write to his family when last he’d been lucid. If she was going to disregard his wishes, Brienne would do it firsthand.

“Thank you, my lady, but I will do it.”

Brienne had no idea of the direction of Colonel Lannister’s brother, and whilst there were a fair number of Lannister relations spread throughout England, she’d never had any indication from him that he treasured especial closeness with them.

In the end, she penned only two letters, sent express: one to the earl’s father, Tywin, the Marquess of Casterly, and the other to his cousin, Cersei, the Duchess of Kingsland.

The Marquess’ response arrived a few days later. He demanded further updates should there be any change and did not even hint at any intention of visiting, all in a missive so curt that it made Brienne’s chest ache. The Duchess sent no response at all.

Watching a man die alone was a wretched thing. Watching a friend, watching _Jaime_ , was more than Brienne thought she could bear. But bear it she did, for there was no one else to do so.

  

Early one morning, she woke in the armchair beside Colonel Lannister’s bed. This was not an unusual occurrence. It had become quite regular, in fact, to return to wakefulness with a pain in her neck from holding it at an odd angle, staring out at Colonel Lannister where he lay, motionless. The difference being that when she looked towards him in the dim early morning light filtering through one of the windows, he wasn’t there.

Brienne jumped to her feet, the last vestiges of sleepiness chased away by alarm. Before she had a chance to do anything else, however, a thump and a string of profanity from across the room stopped her in her tracks. Near the door to the watercloset, Colonel Lannister was leaning heavily against an oaken armoire. Without thought, Brienne crossed the room to him, catching him around the waist before he could slide to the floor.

He was still thin and pale, but she could feel the steadiness of his breathing and of his heartbeat as she helped him back over to his bed.

“All that strength does make itself useful from time to time,” he said leaning back on the pillows. His eyes were clear and he looked at her expectantly when she did not respond. Her words seemed caught up in her chest—a tightness there that she was having trouble fighting past.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” she blurted, at last.

Colonel Lannister cocked his head at her.

“Well, you seemed to have gotten into quite the rhythm with your snoring and I thought it would be a shame to interrupt it.”

The relief, the anxiety, and some iteration of every emotion she’d felt for the last three weeks burst from Brienne’s throat all at once in a wild hysterical laugh, which was almost, but not quite, enough to distract from the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shared confidence.

 

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

Miss Brienne Tarth’s uncharacteristic bout of merriment lasted only so long as it took Jaime to inquire after the date. She sobered then, her long face returning to its normal dour configuration.

“The fever set in more than a fortnight ago,” she said quietly.

Jaime’s memory was a ragged thing, full of fits and starts. But he had no trouble recalling waking to her, from time to time, those huge, blue eyes full of concern as she attempted to make him drink, or soothed his burning skin with a wet cloth. Her hands were large and strong, but so very gentle that he was lulled by their touch. All else was darkness, shapeless oblivion and unpleasant dreams. 

Her appearance certainly did not give the lie to her claims. With her face tired and drawn, abundant freckles mildly faded, Brienne looked as if she hadn’t seen the sun or a good night’s rest in weeks.

“You tended to me all this time?” Jaime had meant to make a joke of it, to poke fun at her or himself, but the question slid out heavy with earnestness. How embarrassing.

Brienne’s pleasure at his recovery seemed insultingly short-lived. The relief and joy that had brightened her face, brought forth that too-wide smile, was gone. Now she looked largely anxious, but with some unidentifiable mix of other emotion playing behind her eyes, private concerns weighing her down.

“N— not just me. I had quite a lot of help,” she stammered. Given that she was a terrible liar, it was clear to Jaime that if she hadn’t done it all by herself, she had certainly done most of it. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling, starting in his belly and fluttering up through his chest. A gentle sort of gratitude and affection for which he’d long since lost all need or desire.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I owed you,” she responded immediately. “What you did-“

“None of that,” Jaimie interrupted, finding himself annoyed. She wasn’t his father nor any other Lannister. She needn’t dismiss it as if it were a business transaction. “What of my diagnosis?” he asked, less because he wanted to than because he knew he must.

His right arm was sluggish, resistant to his attempts to make it do as he wanted. When first he rose, he thought it simply the long bout of inactivity. But as the rest of him came fully awake, his arm remained recalcitrant and grew painful if he attempted to force it.

“The doctor wished to amputate your arm. You told him no, so he cleaned the wound instead, but he warned that there might be some damage.” She frowned. “It didn’t seem like the most important issue at the time. The fever from the infection nearly—“ Those astonishingly pretty eyes—completely at odds with the rest of her face—looked away. They flickered instead towards the door to the sitting room as if someone would emerge to rescue her.

“It was severe,” she finished.

“I’d gathered that,” Jaime replied. “Your reacting as if I’d been resurrected from the grave was a dead giveaway. No pun intended.”

If he hoped the teasing would wipe away that strained, distracted look on her face, he was disappointed. She was still staring at him with that infuriating anxiety written plainly on her plain features. He wondered what could be worse than a near-death and an arm that might never be quite the same again.

“I wrote to your family,” she blurted out.

Ah.

“I didn’t know your brother’s direction, so I sent letters to your father and to your cousin.” He would have pointed out that he had a wealth of cousins, but she barreled ahead. “You father requested regular updates on your condition. The duchess— she— she never replied.

“I’m very sorry,” she added stiffly.

Those few small words dropped with a thud between them. _There_  was the source of her discomfort. She knew. In the grip of his fever, he had clearly been far more forthcoming about the content of his thoughts than he might have liked.

Jaime tried to clench his right fist, grasping for the pain that shot through his arm. He needed it. He needed to brace himself against the torrent of emotions, to keep his head above the flood of _Cersei_  that was sweeping through him, washing away everything in its path. It was as futile as it ever was.

“I suppose my next question should be whether I’ve any secrets left,” he said.

Brienne, bless her, actually looked insulted.

“You called her name. You even— you spoke of her and— and your… feelings.” Her face had gone bright red. Normally, a state he much enjoyed, particularly when he’d managed to cause it, but her disapproval was clear. She was embarrassed by the idea of his having a longstanding affair, of his cuckolding a duke. But not so embarrassed that she would bother to curtail her judgment.

“Forgive me if I irreparably marred your virgin ears,” Jaime replied tartly.

Her brows drew together. “You needn’t act as if I’ve done something wrong when you’re the one who- when you and she— “

“When she and I were fucking behind her husband’s back?” Jaime offered.

“I see your illness has done nothing to temper your vulgarity,” she sniffed.

“And time has done nothing to curtail your stubborn moralizing.”

“You have been _carrying on_  with a married woman for who knows how long and you speak as if you are the wronged party because I disapprove?”

Jaime laughed. “For who knows how long?”

It was absurd. How long? He and Cersei couldn’t be accounted for in months or years or decades. It had always been her. Always.

“My cousin grew up at Casterly,” he said firmly, willing her to understand. “Her mother had been a favorite of my father’s. When she passed, he brought Cersei to live with him, practically as his own. We were inseparable, each other’s only real companion in the years before my younger brother was born. You want to know how long? I’ve loved her for as long as I can remember.”

They’d rampaged through the halls of the austere estate, troubling the staff and harrying their nurses and governesses. They were too young for Tywin to take much interest and Jaime’s mother had doted on them. A spoiled prince and princess at the peak of their own little world.

Brienne was staring at him, hard and silent. It urged him on. The words continued spilling out, pouring forth to fill the room and he let them, as if drowning someone else in it all would allow him to breathe.

“We look very much alike, you know. Lannister blood runs strong. Sometimes, my father’s guests—sycophants and distant relations come to grovel at his feet—would think us siblings, twins even.” Cersei had liked that. She had liked being the daughter of the marquessate, a position far more grand than she could have hoped for otherwise, her mother having made the poor choice of marrying a mere baronet.

“I didn’t care, as long as she was there. We grew and I did not stop loving her. But, of course, there’s no benefit in marrying Lannister to Lannister.”

When she did not respond or even alter her expression, Jaime paused. Then changed tack.

“Do you know what they say about the Duke of Dragonstone?” he asked her.

He knew that she did. She’d thrown it in his face all those weeks ago. He’d wanted to walk away or laugh or strike back then as he had countless other times, to dismiss the awkward, ugly girl from his consideration as easily as brushing dust from his gloves. But he’d _felt_  it when she’d brought up Aerys, felt it in a way he hadn’t in years and years; it had been like to finding a wound long-since scarred over suddenly angry and bleeding once more. And he didn’t know _why_.  Why her of all people? Why this sullen beast of a girl? A girl whom he’d only looked at twice because she’d seen him in a moment of weakness and he’d wanted her to understand that he was far from weak. Yet, then, as now, Brienne Tarth’s stony disdain was a burr under his skin, an itch he desperately needed to scratch. He could not deny it, and he couldn’t bring himself to let her be until he’d solved it.

No one had ever called him a wise man.

Brienne blinked rapidly, brow furrowing, clearly confused by the apparent change in topic. She looked down at her hands, considering, then raised her gaze to him again before speaking.

“They say that you murdered him,” she announced, voice unwavering.

Jaime smiled in spite of himself.

“All the great families are connected. By blood or oath or debt or some mixture. When I was at school, my father decided that it was time for me to become acclimated to the sort of relationships I would be expected to maintain as the Marquess of Casterly. So, every single holiday, instead of going home, I was made to go with him to visit the estates of the other great families. The one I hated most was the very same that I had least chance of ever avoiding: the Targaryens, one of the oldest, and at that time, the most powerful families in all of England.

“I knew that the duke was mad, even as a child. But it wasn’t until I was fifteen that I realized that his tenants regularly starving to death in the winters despite being beholden to an extremely wealthy man wasn’t something that just _happened_  to the lower classes; that his arbitrary and draconian punishments for imagined infractions weren’t his _right_ ; that he was merely powerful enough that he would never be punished for it. It wasn’t until I was seventeen that it became apparent that his cruelty extended to his own family.”

Brienne’s soft heart was obviously affected by this information in a way it hadn’t been by his hopeless love for his cousin, the miserable mess that had been made of his life. Her eyes shined with sympathy for all those farmers and servants and townsfolk she’d never met. Then she blinked, squared her jaw, and swallowed thickly.

“I don’t see what this has to do with you and your cousin,” she said. Softhearted, yes, but she was also like a dog with a bone when she thought that she was right about something.

“It has everything to do with it. The duke routinely beat and forced himself on his wife. I doubt I need to explain to you that she had no recourse. Perhaps if someone, any one of the rich, powerful, titled men to whom she dutifully played hostess, would have attempted to stand for her, it would have made a difference. Perhaps not. Either way, I was young and I was stupid and I approached her. I asked her if I could assist her.” He laughed humorlessly. “Aerys found out, of course, and decided that I was having an affair with her.”

She gave him a look that would have made him laugh genuinely if he didn’t feel so absurdly cut by it. The look said clearly that she wouldn’t put such a thing past him.

“I’d never been with anyone but Cersei,” he said sharply. “Not then and not now.”

She flinched at that, and Jaime pressed on.

“Aerys ranted and raved and swore that he would see her dead, would see me dead, would see us burned alive in the fires of hell itself. He started with me. The duchess, seeing her chance or perhaps merely seeing that she’d have no chance if she stayed, fled with her children. 

“And I killed her husband.”

“If he was ranting and raving and unbalanced as you say there had to have been witnesses,” Brienne protested. “Why not bring it to the law, if he attacked you, why have it covered up so thoroughly? Surely it’s entirely acceptable to defend yourself?”

“It’s not acceptable if defending yourself results in the death of a peer of the realm,” he said gravely, not even able to muster a grim smile at her naiveté. “Luckily for me, the Targaryens weren’t popular. Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark never forgave Rhaegar for absconding with Lyanna Stark and cheating them of their revenge by disappearing overseas. My father never forgives anyone for being more powerful than him, and of course he was quite attached to having his heir both free and living. Stark and Baratheon had been working to have Aerys declared unfit long before I ran afoul of him. Though, they certainly never thanked me for saving them the trouble.” He paused, his voice breaking after the sudden bout of use in the wake of weeks of dormancy.

“I imagine their plan was to then ply the Baratheon’s thin, distant blood relation to the Targaryens into control of the dukedom. With Aerys dead and Rhaella and her remaining son gone, Robert was able to get it all outright once my father paid enough to the right people. Of course, my father never does anything for free.”

Jaime watched as the realization slowly made its way through her, each twist and turn of her thoughts showing on her face.

“So he married Cersei to Robert…” she said slowly.

Jaime shifted, attempting to sit up further, but Brienne was there, helping him, then pressing a glass of water into his hand before he had a chance to say another word. He obliged her and drank.

“To his credit, Robert was a marginally better husband to Cersei than Aerys had been to his wife,” Jaime said, handing her the glass of water. “He’d far too many opera singers…and courtesans…and housemaids…and serving girls…and anything else in skirts that passed by keeping him busy to pay her much mind at all, in fact.”

At long last, the stark disapproval slid slowly from her face, her eyes softened, but she still wasn’t pleased. The question hung between them: why? Why then was Jaime in London all alone? Why hadn’t Cersei even deigned to respond to Brienne’s letter? When she cast her open, empathetic gaze on him again, he thought she might even pity him. 

Furious stares had made him curious, intrigued him, until without warning, he found himself keeping company with the most unlikely person he’d ever met. Her judgment always felt like a challenge, a dare. Her training those eyes on him and seeing a fool to be wept for, though, just made him unaccountably angry.

“I was a comfort to her,” Jaime said forcefully. Or so he’d thought. Cersei had always had more sources of comfort than he realized. But he didn’t want to talk to Brienne about that. She only gave him a scant nod, and even that was ruined by that damned, sympathetic gaze. “After Robert died, Cersei worried about my presence seeming untoward. Robert’s brother Stannis never liked or trusted her, and she didn’t want to give him reason to suspect something.”

“So she sent you away,” Brienne said quietly.

“So I _came_  here,” Jaime lied.

If she offered condolences, if she gave him another sad frown, there was no accounting for what he might do. Luckily for them both, she only sat there. Then, after a dozen heartbeats, she reached out and gently touched his left hand. Her fingers were warm, the tips calloused.

Then she stood, announced that she was going to send his valet to him, and left the room.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cohabitation.

 

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

An extended stint as a guest of the Marchioness of Winterfell was not something Jaime had ever imagined he would actually enjoy. And granted, the bulk of his stay had been spent vomiting and at the edge of death, so that was roughly equal to his expectations. But in the days after the fever broke, after he’d awoken, after he’d bared his soul to Brienne Tarth in a fit of mad emotion, Jaime found that there were more amusements than he’d anticipated when he’d sat up late into the night trying with limited success to force his arm into proper function.

Not from the Starks, of course. Lady Winterfell was a cold fish, in general, and hated him in particular. Lady Sansa—for all her beauty and sweetness—was mind-numbingly dull as common to 17-year-olds, in general, and the aristocracy in particular.

Brienne, however, was a different story. The entertainment to be had from her presence should not have surprised him. He’d been keeping company with her for so many weeks before this entire affair. But there was something different about her, here, in her own home. Or, close enough to. In public, at Dayne’s, there was a wariness to her, a discomfort that hunched her shoulders and made her over-serious. He wouldn’t call her completely at ease in the Stark townhouse, but she was… lighter there, somehow. Happier.

And, of course, it was always fun to bait her. Whether it be criticizing her stitches as she fumbled at embroidery or arguing with her about her taste in novels, it was more than worth the inconvenience of making his way down to the parlour each day or taking meals with his hosts. Her rare smiles came more often and she even laughed and bandied words with him from time to time, her humor surprisingly dry. Outside of the confines of the spacious Mayfair home, drawing a chuckle from her was like water from a stone.

Catelyn Stark, he was sure, would have preferred that he keep to his bedroom or prove himself well enough for her to be rid of him entirely. She would never be so impolite as to hint at it directly, so instead she began a steady barrage of lamentations about Brienne’s absence from society. Brienne bore them with equanimity, but bit by bit the marchioness’s clear implication—that Jaime was some selfish, old ogre jealously keeping Brienne from the outside world in order to bear him company—began to burrow under his skin.

It was not, he assured himself, as though the chit even especially enjoyed being out in society, and certainly the Ton would miss her no more than she missed it. Brienne had made clear in various ways that she had neither interest in marriage or expectations of it. He would not, upon first seeing her, have thought it any sort of shame, but knowing her—knowing her honesty, her strength, her surprising intelligence—left no doubt that she would be a fine match for some man who could look past her awkward appearance. And that was without accounting for her excellent birth and what, Jaime assumed, was likely an even more excellent dowry. 

Still, Jaime had no effect on that. He did not press her to sit with him of an evening instead of attending every rout and dinner and card party London had to offer. She chose it and if it pleased them both, then no one need complain. Why it so pleased him was of no consequence. Big, ugly thing she was, but she’d also become his secret keeper, a confidante of sorts and a surprising comfort whilst he recuperated. 

Not only newer concerns, like his recovery, but things he carried, had carried for many years, seemed less insurmountable in her presence, and he was left feeling lighter in her wake. Her staunch morals and fundamental optimism (though she would deny such a characterization) both amused him with their naiveté and sparked a small seed of hope in his chest. If a person such as her could exist in the world, then it was possible there was a chance for the rest of them. In more ways than one. It needed no more examination than that, and likely not even that much.

One afternoon, over a week after Jaime’s fever broke, he joined the ladies in one of the sitting rooms. Morning calls had come and gone, but tea was still a ways distant. Jaime, only just approved by a certain overbearing chit for such strenuous activity as reading, reclined on a settee with a book. Directly across from him, Brienne bent diligently over a lap desk, writing. She’d said it was a letter to her father upon Jaime’s inquiry some half an hour previously. He’d not been able to pry more than monosyllables out of her since. He would have read if he had any interest in his book at all, which he did not, and he certainly had no intention of joining the conversation between Lady Winterfell and Lady Sansa, which seemed to primarily consist of the latter wheedling the former about some invitation or another. 

Instead, after an excruciating ten minutes, he had taken to staring at a curl near Brienne’s left temple. It was pitiful as curls went, he had to admit. No fat, bouncing ringlet this. Nor was it spilling from a profusion of the same sort of sprightly curls coquettishly pinned at the crown of a head as so often seen on young misses about Town. This was a wispy strand of thin, pale hair that looped about itself once, twice before sticking out, ends messy, near her earlobe. How it had escaped from the aggressively severe chignon in which the rest of her hair was caged he had no idea. Brienne did a queer little tilt of her head when she ended a sentence, and leaned a bit forward and then a bit back at intervals. With each movement the curl swayed, but on a slight delay, as if it couldn’t be arsed to keep up with its owner. Once, she’d absently tucked it behind her ear, but it worked its way back out in mere minutes to resume its lazy swaying.

Jaime’s hand itched to sweep it back, pin it up, or even twirl it around a finger to encourage it towards respectable curl-hood. An absurd impulse, made moreso by the fact that it was his right hand that wanted to twitch in her direction, and he doubted that those fingers had regained the dexterity for such a thing just yet. 

He cleared his throat, shifted his legs about on the settee, and ostentatiously turned three pages in his book. Brienne did not look up.

“But, Mama,” Lady Sansa said, voice carrying across the room, “it’s a perfectly respectable house party.”

“I’m sure it is, but you know very well that the Boltons will invite the Freys and I’ll not share the same house with one of their number!” the marchioness replied, not looking up from the appliqué in her hands.

Jaime weighed this conflict against further maddening consideration of Miss Tarth’s hair and decided on the lesser of two evils.

“A house party is always an enjoyable romp,” Jaime put in, mostly because he imagined it would irritate Lady Winterfell.

 _This_ , of course, finally garnered Brienne’s attention.

“I’d not thought you a devotee of country house parties,” she said, blue eyes at last regarding him instead of the scraps of foolscap in front of her.

In point of fact, he was not, but he did attend the Boltons’ house party at Harrenhal for a few days most years at his father’s behest. The Harrenhal estate actually belonged to the Lannisters; they’d first let it to Roose Bolton’s family years ago. Lord Casterly enjoyed using Jaime as a walking, talking reminder of that debt and unnamed others that were owed him.

“Oh, it all depends on the company,” Jaime said instead, smiling, “how do _you_ feel about house parties?”

Brienne’s cheeks pinked in a manner that would have been quite becoming on a prettier girl.

“I enjoy the country,” was her evasive response as she stared back down at her letter, though she’d yet to take up her pen again.

Lady Sansa wasted no time in using both their statements towards her cause.

“You see, Brienne wishes to go as well! And Lord Westland sees nothing objectionable. And Margaery and her husband will be attending!” the girl cajoled. Jaime imagined that Lord Loras Tyrell’s inevitable presence in the party was the true draw. Of course, that entire affair was not Jaime’s business, and he liked it that way.

“Sansa, please, you’ll trigger a megrim,” Lady Winterfell moaned. “I will _consider_  it.”

Sensing her victory, Lady Sansa quieted after a demure thanks. Lady Winterfell shot a glare at Jaime as if it were all his doing. He grinned back at her.

“You shouldn’t antagonize her,” Brienne scolded, _sotto voce_.

“Now you don’t really think that was my fault, do you?” Jaime asked, mimicking her low tone.

“You certainly did not help,” Brienne replied. “Quite the opposite. As I’m sure was your intention.”

“You wound me, Miss Tarth.”

“I sincerely doubt it.” The slightest twitching at the corner of her mouth revealed her amusement. Jaime pounced.

“No, it’s quite true,” he said. “And you haven’t the faintest regard for my tender sensibilities.”

“You’ve no more sensibility than I have,” Brienne returned.

“I am to gather that you consider yourself a creature of great pragmatism, then?” Jaime asked. 

“Yes,” she declared, with that endearing squaring of the shoulders that came about on the rare occasions she allowed pride to shine through—when she thought herself formidable in a way that could not be undermined.

Jaime clicked his tongue, then shook his head, chuckling. 

“Know thyself,” he intoned sagely.

“Because your self-knowledge is absolute, I assume?”

Jaime made a non-committal sound, ignoring the twinge he felt. “We’re not talking about me.”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Brienne said. “‘And does it not seem to you ridiculous, when you do not yet know that to investigate irrelevant things?’”

“You’ve read Plato?” Jaime asked before he could school his surprise. Why anyone, but perhaps his brother, would _elect_ to slog through Greek philosophers was beyond him. She certainly wouldn’t have been at school and required to do so.

Brienne’s gaze shifted away from his and she looked almost embarrassed, as if caught out, but when she spoke her voice was still strong.

“I am my father’s only child and heir,” she said. “He did not wish me to be ignorant.”

“Well, you are full of surprises,” Jaime said. Brienne rarely spoke of her upbringing, though her skill with a blade made clear that it was not exactly orthodox. She made a habit of letting others talk and revealed very little of herself. If it weren’t so easy to read her face once you bothered to pay attention to it, Jaime felt as if he would know nothing of her at all.

Before Jaime could take the opening to delve further into the mysteries of Brienne Tarth, the sound of the butler opening the door broke in.

“Her Grace, The Duchess of Kingsland,” the man announced, and the world fell away.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last kiss.

 

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

The parlor seemed suddenly smaller after the Starks and Brienne—the latter deliberately not meeting Jaime’s eyes—filed out to allow him to speak privately with his cousin. Cersei filled the space entirely, blotting out the imported rugs and tasteful pastel furniture. Even in her widow’s weeds she was radiant. She had foregone a full cap and heavy veil. Instead, a delicate confection of black lace was affixed to her thick, golden curls.

Looking at her for the first time in so many months, taking in her beauty, brought only into sharper relief by the black she wore to mourn a man she hated, it was easy to forget what had become of them. For a moment, Jaime was transported, back years ago before the lies and the resentment. Or at least, before the veil of his ignorance had been lifted. Cersei had made quite clear she’d been lying to him for a very long time.

She snapped the end of her fan against one hand as she crossed the room towards him, sharp eyes taking in her surroundings, cataloguing and dismissing, he imagined.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” she asked eyes flickering to the pristine, white sling on his arm as she took the seat across from him. Brienne’s lap desk sat, ignored, near her feet.

Her tone betrayed little curiosity and less concern, but even if she cared—and perhaps she did; she likely would not have come if she did not—it would have come out the same. Cersei had never been good with tenderness. The distance that had grown between them—after Messrs. Kettleblack, after Lancel, after who knew who else—and had only been lengthened when she sent him away spilled out over the few feet separating settee from couch, thickening the air.

“I can’t imagine you’d be here if you didn’t already know, sweet cousin,” Jaime replied.

Cersei was unamused; his wry tongue had never been her favourite aspect of his person. 

“You were shot. Fighting thugs,” she declared. “Please tell me it wasn’t in a fit of pique.”

When he’d first found out about the others—found out that while he courted outrageous flirtations that led nowhere in order to draw attention, she betrayed him every bit as easily and discreetly as she did Robert—Jaime hadn’t known what to do. He was angry. Furious, even, but it was impotent. There was no outlet, no solution to the problem of their relationship that Jaime could fathom.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think he could be happy without Cersei; it was that he’d never chanced to think of himself without her at all. Then, she’d forced his hand.

“No,” he replied. “It was not a fit of pique.” He thought, for a split second, to explain about Brienne, how he could not allow her to come to harm, but the impulse was violently rejected just as quickly as it came.

“And how did you come to impose upon the marchioness’s hospitality?” Cersei knew as well as Jaime did how little love Catelyn Stark harbored for him.

“I believe her protégé, the one who was attacked alongside me, had a hand in it,” Jaime said; he would be shocked if it was otherwise. “I haven’t asked.”

“That great, shambling creature who was just here, I suppose,” Cersei said dismissively as she folded and unfolded her fan.

“Miss Tarth,” Jaime heard himself say between clenched teeth.

Cersei smiled as if she hadn’t heard him, leaning forward in a manner that left her fichu completely unfit to contain her creamy bosom.

“Are you enjoying your stay? Or has your…comfort been as neglected as I imagine?” Her words oozed meaning, a familiar game. Jaime didn’t feel like playing.

“It’s no better or worse than the empty house next door.”

Cersei leaned back again, annoyance twisting her delicate features.

“What do you want, Jaime?” she asked wearily.

“I want… to go home,” he said, because he was weary as well.

“Then return to Casterly. I’m certainly not keeping it from you,” she said with a wave of her fan.

Jaime sat up, swung his feet down to the floor.

“No,” he said firmly. “Not to Casterly. With you. Home is with you.”

She rolled her eyes, frustration plain. 

“Is it not enough that I traipsed across the country to see you since  _Miss Tarth_  made it sound as if you were on your deathbed?” she asked, though she expected no answer. “Luckily, I had need to meet with some of Robert’s solicitors in Town. I’ll not give any more reason for talk. You understand that.”

“Oh, yes. I do,” Jaime spat. “If I understand nothing else—and as you’ve previously informed me I do not—I understand that.”

She came to her feet of a sudden, face reddening with her anger.

“Don’t speak to me that way: as if I’m mad— or— or irrational—“

“You were  _married_ , Cersei,” Jaime said, cutting to the quick of it. To the three very blond children with Cersei’s eyes and his nose. Unbidden, he wondered if Brienne had worked out that truth as well: the Cuckoos of Kingsland. 

“Legally they are Robert’s children.” And more than that: down to the one they had never known any father but the duke, and Cersei had certainly been draconian in her insistence that Jaime never chance to think of them as his children. “No matter how much Stannis huffs and puffs, there is nothing he can do to change that.”

She scoffed. “Yes, until he huffs and puffs his way all the way to Chancery.”

“With what evidence?” Jaime demanded. “There is none.” They’d been careful. Cersei was always careful.

“And I would keep it that way!” she snapped. “Not have my dear cousin ghosting about the estate raising eyebrows and causing comparisons to be drawn.”

“What would you have me do, Cersei? Spend the rest of my life exiled to London?”

“Please. London is hardly Timbuktu.”

“Cersei,” he pleaded and hated himself—hated her—just a little, for it.

“You must marry,” she said suddenly, as if that was what they’d been discussing all along.

“That is all I want,” Jaime said slowly. “It is all I’ve ever wanted. You  _know_  that.”

“Not  _me_. Someone else. Someone pliable. Or stupid. Or apathetic. Or all three. It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You just need someone on your arm. Publicly, permanently, unimpeachably.” She smiled the same way she used to when they were children and she’d figured out how to have her way after being denied a treat. “I would suggest your savior, Miss Tarth, but we’d certainly never be able to convince anyone that you were enamored with  _her_.”

Jaime swallowed his first response—which was, of all things, to point out that Brienne would never agree to marry him under any circumstance, much less to cover his affair—but made no effort to contain his grimace. 

“That’s your answer? Have me find some giggling miss to shackle myself to? To live some mockery of a marriage—“

“Don’t be a child,” Cersei said. “And don’t talk to me about making a mockery of marriage. You were happy to make one of mine for its duration.”

“That, my dear, would be why I’m so tired of it.”

She crossed the rest of the distance between them, her eyes hard and cold.

“If there is  _any_  indication of the truth everything will be lost. All the Baratheon titles, fortune, our standing. We will be nothing in the eyes of society, fit only to avail ourselves of my uncle’s charity. Or yours. I will not allow anyone to threaten my children’s futures that way.  _My_  future. Not even you.”

He stared up at her as she hovered over him, beautiful and terrible. He’d considered once asking her how Robert died. Was a seasoned hunter more or less likely to fall victim to a mishap, he’d wondered. He decided there was no point in asking. In part because he knew by then that Cersei would lie to him if it suited her and in part because it didn’t matter. He would have killed the man himself if she’d asked. He would have done anything she’d asked.

Jaime swallowed thickly, made his voice flat. “Then, I suppose we don’t have anything more to talk about.”

She did not become angry, raise her voice, or strike him. Cersei simply closed the last few inches and kissed him, sweet and sensual.

“Find a girl, Jaime,” she whispered. “It won’t be difficult. Mayfair is full of them and every last one would be happy to marry the Earl of Westland.

“If you ask very nicely, I may even plan the wedding for you.”

She ran slender fingers through his hair with just a hint of fondness before turning and gliding towards the door. He heard the lock click and the door open. Then she was gone. 

Jaime had been a fool for Cersei a thousand times, but he wasn’t fool enough to think that she was coming back.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brutal truth.

 

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

Jaime removed to his own townhouse two days after the Duchess’s visit. He was withdrawn during the interim, and kept to his room more than he had since the breaking of his fever. Brienne did not dare to broach the obvious topic in the scant moments he made himself available, and what went unsaid made a wall between them. When Brienne chanced to ask after his sudden defection, he only slanted her a crooked grin that did not reach his eyes.

“I’ve trespassed on Stark hospitality long enough,” he said. “Your Lady Winterfell would doubtless agree. Besides, chit, I live next door. Putting off returning is just sloth.” His tone brooked no further discussion and it would have been unbecoming to press.

Lady Winterfell, of course, was overjoyed to have her home, once again, devoid of Lannisters, and Brienne made a concerted effort to neither seem nor feel bereft.

He could have been in France for all the difference it made to the logistics of visiting him, and there would be no more trips to Dayne’s in the near future, for obvious reasons. Brienne could still go, of course, but the draw of such a solitary venture had been drastically reduced after so many weeks of companionship. For the first few nights, Brienne left her window open, the moonlight lengthening her shadow, but across the way Jaime’s curtains remained firmly drawn. The message, Brienne felt, was clear.

It was not the first time during their acquaintance that Jaime Lannister had made her feel quite stupid, though she could hardly blame him. At least, not entirely. She had seen for herself how beautiful the Duchess of Kingsland was. It was a miracle that he had subsisted with Brienne’s company for as long as he had with that as the standard to which she must be compared. Of course, they did not fill the same role in his life—Brienne’s face heated just to think of it—but Brienne had ever been called staid and dour, so there could be no doubt that even just his cousin’s conversation was far preferable to her own.

At first, when the Duchess had sent no response to Brienne’s missive, she’d thought that matters between them were at an end, but the Duchess’s presence belied that. Whatever rift had been made was obviously mended in the wake of Jaime’s injury and near-death experience. Despite claiming urgent, but brief, business during her visit to the Stark townhouse, the Duchess did not leave London for some days, and Brienne told herself what that meant was none of her concern.

If Jaime had, indeed, chosen to drop their acquaintance upon regaining his cousin’s favor, there was nothing to be done but cease thinking of him as surely and absolutely as he had of her. Lady Winterfell and Sansa were more than happy to present Brienne with any number of social engagements to assist her towards that end.                                                                                                                                                             

Sansa had continued to spend an exceptional amount of time with Lady Margaery and, of course, through her, with Lord Loras. They were forever calling back and forth, and Brienne had long ago lost count of the amount of picnics and garden parties and evenings at Almack’s Sansa had attended in their company. Newly absent other engagements, Brienne was increasingly invited to join them. 

Initially, Brienne expected to feel awkward, given that Renly’s attendance was also assured on most such excursions. But while there was a certain sense of displacement to being in the company of two such well-matched pairs, the overwhelming effect Renly’s mere presence had once had over her was unexpectedly muted. Such occasions, then, were more pleasant than Brienne had ever before known them to be. Try as she might not to think of him, Brienne felt she had Jaime to thank for that, in his own way. It had become easier in the wake of his abandonment to truly accept her role in society.

She had pined for Renly, hopelessly, without expectation of return, but somehow the distant ideal still persisted in her mind, as he did, a perfect, impossible lover for a version of her that did not and could not exist. Her stubborn feelings for Jaime were every bit as impossible, but knowing him, befriending him—if briefly and unrequitedly—becoming intimately familiar with his flaws and virtues, made it feel different somehow. The loss—of his regard, of even the fanciful imaginings of making a match someday that had been fueled by the idea that such a man could find value in her—settled upon her in a way it had not before. More than ever, she understood that her place was on the edges of the kind of life women like Sansa were destined to live. Even dreams of more were beyond such as her. There was a freedom to be found in that, at least.

Yet more pleasure lay in the fact that Brienne had certainly never seen _Sansa_ happier. Her young friend shined, brilliant and stunning, as she whispered confidences back and forth with Lady Margaery and flirted outrageously with Lord Loras. It was, frankly, a shock to Brienne that the banns hadn’t already been called, but both Sansa and her beau were young yet. Perhaps if he had been the elusive Duke of Kingsland, Sansa would have been more anxious for the match to be made official, but with Lord Loras, she seemed to enjoy being so assiduously courted by so handsome a gentleman largely separate from expectation. By all appearances, Sansa wanted very little but to delight in her status, her popularity, and all that London society had to offer. She was born for it and of sweet enough a disposition that Brienne certainly couldn’t begrudge her the good fortune.

But even for Sansa, not everything could work out exactly as she wished. 

Urgent business at the ancestral Baratheon estate, Stormend, necessitated Renly’s presence and, as ever, where he went, the Tyrell siblings followed, thus excluding them from the Harrenhal house party. This in turn excluded Sansa who had finally convinced her mother to allow her to attend only by enlisting Lord Renly and Lady Margaery as chaperones.

“Mama,” Sansa pleaded over soup the evening after the disastrous news had been related by an uncharacteristically melancholic Lady Margaery. “You promised that I could go.”

Brienne quickly waved away the footmen who were positioned by the sideboard. The three ladies could refill their own glasses if it would avoid gossip belowstairs.

“I _allowed_ that you could attend with Lady Margaery and her husband to look after you,” Lady Winterfell said calmly. “I certainly never implied that you would be permitted to flit off by yourself.”

“You could accompany me,” Sansa insisted. Brienne winced. News about the complete guest list had been circulating for days. Sansa must truly have been desperate to provide her mother with that opening.

“I certainly will not!” Lady Winterfell exclaimed. “You know very well that Walder Frey—of all people—has decided to show his face. I’ll not live under the same roof as that man for any amount of time. Not after the scandal he caused at your uncle’s wedding!”

“Mama, everyone has forgotten all about that, why can’t you?” Sansa asked.

“Perhaps in London they have, but everyone up north remembers,” Lady Winterfell contested. “That foul old man and his vulgarity parading as wit, encouraging that army of sons of his to drunken recklessness in the middle of the wedding breakfast. All because he had over-lofty hopes for one of those daughters of his to catch Robb.” 

The dowager made a noise that communicated such indignation at the very idea that it would have been humorous if not for the desolation in Sansa’s eyes.

“Please, Mama,” she said. “It’s my very first house party. And at Harrenhal! No one interesting ever invites girls my age. Jeyne has been out for two seasons and she’s not been invited to any house parties at all. It’s all I’ve ever wanted!”

The righteous fury leeched from Lady Winterfell and her eyes softened as she looked at her daughter.

“I’m truly sorry, darling, but I’ve already invited your aunt for a stay. You know how rarely she comes to Town. I cannot just put her off.”

At last, Sansa nodded glumly, and a sullen silence lingered like a fog over the dinner table. Until, Brienne’s own voice cut through it.

“I will accompany Sansa,” she said.

Both Lady Winterfell and Sansa looked up at her, staring for a long moment. One dubious, the other hopeful.

“Brienne,” Lady Winterfell said slowly. “I appreciate the offer, but you are just as unmarried as Sansa and very nearly as young. It would be equally inappropriate for you to—“

“I appreciate your kindness, my lady,” Brienne replied, cutting the marchioness off with more force in her voice than she’d intended or expected, “but you know very well…everyone knows…that I am as firmly on the shelf as any spinster twice my age. We needn’t pretend that I will ever marry or that my prospects or reputation are of great concern.” She smiled a tight smile, one she did not feel. “Not to mention that should she need defending I could best any or all of Sansa’s brothers at fisticuffs, saber, and pistol. The presence of the hostess will ameliorate all else.”

Lady Winterfell looked at Brienne, her frown not one of disapproval so much as sympathy. The truth of what Brienne had said was clear to her, regardless of how little she liked it. If the marchioness intended to say anything else, however, it was lost in the commotion as Sansa rose from her chair with a shriek and flew across the room to Brienne’s side, pressing Brienne’s large hands in her tiny ones as she exclaimed her gratitude in the most effusive of terms.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A country house party.

 

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

It was two days’ travel from London to Harrenhal. Brienne and Sansa were handed into the carriage in the early morning fog, as Lady Winterfell waved a sedate goodbye from the safety of the townhouse entryway. It was a dreary, gray day, but that did nothing to dull the anticipation of the travelers.

Brienne rarely enjoyed a long carriage ride; she much preferred having her own mount to the dull drudgery of being cooped up in the vehicle. However, Sansa’s joy was contagious and, though it did nothing for Brienne’s physical comfort, it was difficult to be bored in her company. The expected topic of conversation proved nigh inexhaustible. The house party—the guests, the amusements, the gossip—was a subject on which Sansa could speak at length, and in which Brienne, for her part, took no little interest herself. While Sansa buzzed with excitement over the society amongst which she was being welcomed, Brienne anticipated nothing so much as being in the country once more.

She did not dislike London, exactly, but there always came a point during every Season when she began to feel stifled and wanted for nothing more than fresh, clean country air, some woodlands to explore, and fields in which to ride, to gallop, with no need to worry over what fashionable people walking about the park she might offend.

Upon confiding this to Sansa, however, the younger girl merely smiled slyly and suggested that in the future Brienne would be at liberty to spend time in the country whenever she wished. The implication of marriage lived in the twinkle in Sansa’s eye and the curve of her lips. Brienne ignored it.

Sansa was unperturbed.

“Of course, that is a little ways off. Still, being unmarried is not so terrible,” she said. “Only think how daring we will seem, traveling unchaperoned. If we had husbands there would be nothing in it.”

Brienne pursed her lips.

“It concerns me how easily you forget that you were allowed to attend this house party only with the understanding that _I_  am your chaperone,” Brienne muttered.

Sansa’s delighted laughter pealed. 

“Come, Brienne, you may spin whatever tales you wish for Mama—and I thank you for it—but don’t expect _me_  to believe that rubbish about you never marrying.”

“Sansa—“ Brienne tried, but she would not be halted.

“Mama is blinded by her dislike for his name,” Sansa continued sagely, “but I have _seen_  you with Lord Westland. It’s obvious to everyone that you have an understanding!”

Brienne’s face heated, her eyes widening in horror. She had been so staunchly quelling whenever Lord Westland was mentioned to her. After those first few weeks, she'd thought it was generally assumed that Jaime was visiting at Stark House, and even spending time with Brienne, as a path to _Sansa_. Brienne had done little to discourage the rumor. When nothing came of it, the Ton would simply believe that Jaime had tried and failed to fix his interest with the beautiful Lady Sansa; no different than half the bachelors in London. A harmless assumption. But if people thought that he'd been paying court to Brienne herself, no one would ever believe anything but that he'd cried off after raising false hopes. Despite everything, she did not wish for him to be labeled a jilt. He'd already suffered enough unjust censure in his life.

Sansa bit her lip.

“Well,” she said, reluctantly, mistaking Brienne’s expression for indignation. “It’s not accurate to say that _everyone_  knows it—or…many people, really. But that is only because they haven’t witnessed what I have!” she finished loyally.

“It’s fine, Sansa,” Brienne said, deeply relieved. “There is nothing worth anyone’s conversation, at any rate.”

Sansa eyed her speculatively. “Are you and the earl still quarreling? I know he left abruptly, but surely you’ve mended things?”

Brienne wanted to say that they were never quarreling in the first place, that quarreling would require him to pay her any mind at all, but she wanted a change in topic more, so she simply nodded noncommittally and let Sansa steer the conversation back to the many wonders of Harrenhal.

The inn where they broke their journey was imminently respectable and nearly boring for it. Enough so, in fact, that Sansa made only minor objection to Brienne’s insistence that they not venture beyond their own rooms and the private dining room bespoken for them by the servants who had traveled ahead. They set off again early the next morning and were on Harrenhal’s grounds mere hours later. They passed the charred stone edifice where the original manor had been located before a terrible fire had sent it to ruin. Then, they progressed through a wooded path, the fanning leaves of tall evergreens only letting pinpricks of light dapple the ground, before spilling out in front of the sprawling country manor.

Mrs. Bolton, rosy-cheeked and plump, welcomed them warmly as footmen swarmed to retrieve their trunks.

“Lady Sansa! And Miss Tarth,” she said, bobbing a swift curtsey. “I hope your journey wasn’t overly taxing.”

“Oh no, not at all,” Sansa demurred. “And I daresay we were so anxious to reach your lovely home that any journey would have seemed acceptable.”

Mrs. Bolton—who could not have been more than a few years Sansa’s senior—pinked, her pleasure clear.

“Come, come,” she said, waving them inside. “The rest of your things have already arrived, along with your maids. I’m certain you’ll want to refresh yourselves.”

Mrs. Bolton shuffled them over polished marble floors and through high-ceilinged halls, chattering all the while about guests who had arrived and guests who were expected and plans for evening entertainment. Her monologue was interrupted, however, when they encountered some of those guests in the form of a knot of men. They were headed out for a ride, if their attire was any indication. 

Their eyes stuttered over Brienne in the normal fashion before admiring Sansa, but not for too long. Most of them were young, Brienne noted as she catalogued their faces, too young to be especially interested in well-bred misses over opera singers and the like. Young ladies were for marrying, but young men wanted only for mistresses. She was gratified to see that she was not acquainted with many of them, as such acquaintances were rarely a pleasant sort in Brienne’s case. Until, her eyes fell on the man who’d come up at the back of the group. Brienne felt suddenly very cold, which was odd as she knew she must be going red.

Mrs. Bolton rushed to make introductions, and Brienne nodded and curtsied and murmured commonplaces as if half-awake. She could not dull her awareness of the last of their number, who had clearly now spotted Brienne in turn. 

Mr. Ronnet Connington had changed very little since Brienne had last seen him. Still broad and red-haired. Still looking at her with a sneering mixture of dislike and amusement. She’d tried for years without success to banish the memory of him practically throwing the bouquet he’d brought at her. The curl of his mouth as he dashed off a thoughtless, “I think it’s clear we shan’t suit,” before she’d even untied her tongue to greet him. 

Beside her, Sansa lay a concerned hand against Brienne’s own and, all in a rush, she came back to herself. She wasn’t a little girl anymore, isolated and painfully shy, stumbling over her words, so hopeful that her betrothed would like her. She’d friends now and she’d found some sort of place. She’d been mistreated by men since, deceived and manipulated and mocked. She had endured it, she’d not broken. She was strong enough. She had handled it all, and she could handle him.

She gave Sansa a little shake of her head, a brief hand clutch, to indicate that she was all right. 

When Mrs. Bolton at last turned to Connington to make the introduction, he grinned maliciously.

“Miss Tarth and I are old friends, aren’t we?” he said, looking at her, daring her to mangle her words, to embarrass herself. To be shamed.

Instead, Brienne stared back at him, her face impassive, her eyes cold. Then, without a word, turned sharply away from him and faced Mrs. Bolton.

“I would dearly like to be taken to my room now, if it’s not too much trouble,” she said pleasantly.

Mrs. Bolton looked at her, confusion evident. If she did not uphold Brienne’s request, if she did not accept the clear message that it was the only way to avoid unpleasantness, Brienne would be caught out. Mrs. Bolton hesitated, visibly distressed, for what seemed an eternity. Then Sansa, sweet Sansa, sprung into action.

“Yes, I should very much like that as well,” she intoned before giving Connington a single icy “sir” and hooking her arm through Brienne’s as they continued down the hall, leaving Mrs. Bolton to hurry after them.

“Thank you,” Brienne said as they cleared a corner, voice low with emotion.

“Of course,” Sansa whispered back. “I’ve never seen you give _anyone_  the cut direct before, so I assumed he must have deserved it!”

“Very much so,” Brienne said. “ _Very_  much so.”

 

A warm bath and a long nap left Brienne every bit as refreshed as she could hope for. Once she’d dressed for dinner, she crossed the hall to Sansa’s room, which was directly opposite hers. The next quarter hour was spent in heated debate over pouf sleeves versus three-quarter, with the former taking the ultimate victory as they were better equipped to show off the pearl fastenings on Sansa’s new opera gloves.

Brienne had not offered more information about Connington’s crimes and Sansa had refrained from more than a few questions, but when they entered the overstuffed drawing room Sansa immediately steered Brienne in one direction. It didn’t take long for Brienne to realize that she’d seen Connington in the other.

They milled about, greeting those with whom they were already familiar and being introduced to new acquaintances. In a far corner, Mrs. Bolton and her elusive husband stood, conversing with a handful of guests. Mr. Bolton was a pale man with paler eyes who spoke so quietly and so little that Brienne wondered that he bothered to host such parties at all. Perhaps, she thought, that could be owed to his wife, formerly a Frey, and the seemingly endless breadth of that family. There were certainly no shortage of Freys present.

Brienne had only idly began to count all those she could identify before she was stopped short. She’d chanced to look back towards the Boltons’ group. Another had been added to their number, his back to Brienne and Sansa. Thick, golden curls falling to his collar, broad shoulders, slimmer than he should be. He’d obviously not yet regained the weight he lost during his fever. Brienne pretended at equanimity so well even in her own mind, but when he was stood there now, a few scant feet away, it became painfully clear to her that she was not ready to face Jaime.

He began to turn and Brienne only allowed herself to glance at the sharp jut of his jawline before she averted her eyes, staring, for lack of a better object, at her own feet. Sansa’s tiny gasp said clearly that he had seen them, and that he was approaching. Only a few seconds of dedicated contemplation of her slippers passed before Sansa curtsied beside Brienne.

Brienne dipped into a curtsy as well and forced herself to meet his eyes.

It was not Jaime. 

He could have been Jaime, perhaps years ago, when he was barely more than a boy. The build was close enough, the shape of his face, his eyes. The smile was wrong, though. The sinuous curve of his mouth held nothing, an idle gesture, lacking the sharpness of Jaime’s, the quip, the clever observation drawn up in the corner like a bowstring ready to be loosed.

“Your Grace,” Sansa said, her smile a beacon.

Joffrey Baratheon, Duke of Kingsland, availed himself of Sansa’s hand and bent over it, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Her cheeks pinked and Brienne, still reeling, had barely the time to register that, as Sansa’s chaperone, she should probably have some complaint.

“Lady Sansa, it’s been far, far too long,” he said. His voice too, was nothing like Jaime’s, still possessed of the reediness of youth. It owed little to Jaime’s lazy drawl and was almost unctuous in its tone.

“Indeed it has,” Sansa agreed with easy familiarity that belied the months she’d spent desperately hoping for his appearance. “Though I understand the regrettable circumstances.” Sansa inclined her head towards the black band on the Duke’s arm. He looked at it as if he had forgotten its presence entirely before expressing rote thanks for her condolences.

“Of course, I’m being very rude,” Sansa exclaimed, turning to Brienne. “May I make known to you my dear friend, Miss Tarth. She is well-acquainted with your uncle, Lord Renly.”

The Duke did a poor job of disguising the fact that he had very little interest in an introduction to Brienne. He turned his gaze on her only briefly and gave her the scantest of nods before turning back to Sansa and, to all appearances, letting her pass completely from his mind. That, at least, she thought, was not so different from Jaime in the end.

The Duke offered Sansa his arm and suggested that they sit to reacquaint themselves. Brienne followed close behind, and when Sansa perched on a floridly floral sofa, Brienne sat beside her, forcing the Duke into a nearby armchair. 

As the evening wore on, Brienne had very little share in the conversation, though she could not count it a great loss. Joffrey Baratheon seemed content to allow Sansa to provide a steady flow of reminiscences from their shared childhood only so far as they focused heavily upon himself, which he punctuated with stories of his various triumphs and successes in the intervening years.

If Sansa noticed that he lacked in any way, she did not let on. The attention she paid him was rapt, as if his tales of carriage races won and wild stallions put through their paces were the most fascinating things she’d ever heard. For his part, His Grace rarely took his eyes from Sansa, yet Brienne could not mark that he was particularly interested in anything she was actually saying. Though she could not really imagine him being interested in anything anyone but himself was saying.

Her duty as a chaperone weighed on her more than she had anticipated. Not that the Duke had done anything especially untoward. Kissing Sansa’s fingers had been a bit forward, but it was very little to which to take exception. He was the picture of gallantry, in fact, and, of course it was only natural that they two, the highest ranking of the company and with a long prior acquaintance besides, should gravitate towards each other. Even etiquette dictated that the Duke see Sansa into dinner. 

Still, things she had heard in the halls of Dayne’s would not leave Brienne’s mind as she was forced from Sansa’s side by the seating arrangements. The Duke’s empty charm and that not-quite-good-natured smile brought her no comfort. His haunting resemblance to Jaime did nothing to stop Brienne’s nerves being set on edge. After dinner and cards and conversation—of which Brienne heard not a word—retiring to bed seemed a long-anticipated respite.

Away from the distraction of his face and form, Brienne was at last able to attain a semblance of calm, in which state she did not reckon that Sansa was truly in any danger from the Duke of Kingsland. Still, there was no fit reason to be lax in her chaperonage. From the moment she looked up at him, any doubt that had existed in her mind that this boy—and likely his siblings—were Jaime’s children had been thoroughly vanquished. But it was just as clear—in his eyes, in his speech, in the way he carried himself—that Jaime’s character did not breed as true as his looks. Brienne could not, against all expectation, count that a good thing.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected encounter.

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

The next morning Brienne was given almost immediate relief from her concerns. Over breakfast, Mrs. Bolton spearheaded a plan for the gathered young ladies to go for some shopping in the village. The response to this was overwhelmingly positive. So, as the young ladies worked out the specifics of the outing—most particularly how many footmen would be required to cart back their parcels—the majority of the young men, the Duke of Kingsland included, fled with talk of going shooting.

Brienne, not being especially interested in the former and well aware she would not be welcomed for the latter, summarily found herself free for the day. One brief consultation with Mrs. Bolton later, Brienne set out for a solitary walk, armed with a small basket of edibles and a mind in need of tranquility.

She skirted the formal gardens and followed the path that wound through the forest instead. It was difficult to give way to anxiety when surrounded by such natural beauty. As a child at Evenfall, her father always said that she spent more time running around on the grounds than she did actually inside the manor. She could never deny the veracity of the claim.

Even now, years on and many miles away, Brienne found that she could not resist the urge to run once more. With one glance around to confirm that she was alone, Brienne slung the basket up onto her elbow, hitched up her skirts, and took off. It was intoxicating, to be as a child again, free of care, to feel nothing—not pain or doubt—but the wind on her face and the flexing of her muscles and the rapid beating of her own heart. Her feet beat up dust from the path as she ran, her long legs making longer strides as she fled deeper into the wilderness and away from the pressures of civilization.

She had to stop, eventually, for the sake of catching her breath if nothing else. A quick check of her person revealed that her half boots and stockings were covered with dust, a halo of messy hair had worked its way out of her chignon, and her bonnet had been lost entirely to the wind and the speed of her flight.

Brienne didn’t care. There was no one there, after all, to scold or look down on her for any of it.

A few minutes more of her much calmer pace dumped her out on the bank of a beautiful lake, perched like a gem on the edge of the forest. Brienne felt a painful pang for her home near the coast, extending out into a group of tiny islands where her ancestors once lived. The waters there were more blue than any she’d ever seen. Still, though the lake could never compare to what she had known, it was enticing. It could not help but be so after her run and with the shade of the trees waning as the morning carried on.

The decision made, Brienne stripped down to her chemise and waded in up to her thighs. The water was deliciously cool and Brienne dived forward, submerging herself. She’d learned to swim long before she’d ever gotten her seat on a horse, and it had remained a coveted pleasure. She swam out further with long, lazy strokes before surfacing again in a patch of sunlight. The heat on her face contrasted with the water’s grip on her body and she let herself float there, eyes closed, on her back.

It was a posture that encouraged contemplation, and her thoughts spun about in her mind. There was no doubt that Sansa would be married soon, if not to Loras Tyrell then to someone else. Once that was handled, Lady Winterfell, of course, would have to turn right around and go back to London next Season for Arya’s sake, though Brienne had a hard time imagining the girl submitting to a coming out and all that entailed. At least not quietly. But even that would solve itself in a few years, and Lady Winterfell, flush out of daughters needing her guidance, would retire to the vast northern estate where she’d loved her husband and raised her children, and spend well-deserved peaceful years helping her son manage the marquessate and enjoying her grandchildren.

Brienne could never wish anything else for her—she loved her sponsor, her mentor, her friend too dearly. But there was no denying the ways it would shape her own path, just as Catelyn Stark had first done years before when she found Brienne sobbing in the Earl of Highgarden’s library. 

Brienne had steeled herself through the courtship, the engagement, even the ceremony itself, but Renly and Margaery’s wedding breakfast had proven to be too much for her to bear. She’d had no idea what to expect when the elegant and stately widow had appeared at the door. She had noticed the marchioness’s gaze on her throughout the day, but she assumed it had been for the same reasons as it generally was. The huge, beast of a girl who fenced with men could hardly be surprised by stares. But Catelyn had only closed the door, then produced a handkerchief for Brienne, which she pressed into her hands before taking a seat, facing away, as if to allow her privacy.

“I’ll not let anyone disturb you,” Catelyn said simply, and she’d sat there silently as Brienne cried herself out, confused but too desolate at that moment to do anything about it.

And when she had finished and returned the handkerchief and finally asked the marchioness how she’d known to find Brienne, the older woman only said: “I’ve become very familiar with a certain sort of grief.”

They’d sat there and talked then, almost like old friends. Catelyn told Brienne about her husband, her children, how she wasn’t finished mourning, didn’t know if she ever would be, but her girls needed her, so she would do everything possible to see them settled.

In return, Brienne had told Catelyn of her father’s forbearance, of her single extremely belated season and the disaster it had been, of the horrid bet, of what a disappointment she would be returning home after only a few months having failed so utterly at the one thing he’d ever asked of her.

“And why do you have to return home?” Catelyn had asked. “Excuse my frankness, but I am unaware of any financial difficulties on the part of your father. Surely whomever you are staying with will allow you more than a single Season?”

“I am staying with no one,” Brienne replied. “My governess—companion now, I suppose—is my only chaperone. Our family is old, but small, my lady. I have no matronly aunts or cousins to take me in and whisk me about society. Only my name, rank, and… natural charms.

“I never— I never expected that Lord Renly would— of course he and I would not have married. But I had hoped some other man would perhaps be… gentlemanly. There is likely no point in continuing the farce at any rate but—“

“Stay with me,” Catelyn said, as if it were nothing, as if it were not one of the only kindnesses Brienne had experienced during her entire time in London. “I must re-enter society so that I may bring my daughters out in the fashion they deserve. I would be honored to sponsor you as I do so.”

She’d accepted, of course, and it had been good. Better than Brienne had expected. If society hadn’t come to love her, the Marchioness of Winterfell’s influence was enough to grant her the means to peaceful existence. If she still had few marriage prospects, the earnest companionship of the Starks made her feel less alone.

But when Lady Winterfell had completed her obligation to her daughters, Brienne’s imposition on their hospitality would end. She would not accept more even if they should offer it (and she was fairly certain they would). It was time, it would be time, for her to go home—no more a success than she had been after her first season, but wiser for it, at least.

 The sun was noon high when Brienne at last swam back to the shore. Shivering, she redressed and ate the flakey bread, rich cheese, and fresh fruit packed for her as a light repast before heading back towards the manor.

She had reached the edge of the formal gardens when she saw another figure in the distance. The midday sun glinted off of Kingsland’s golden curls and Brienne wondered what he was doing on this part of the estate given that the men had sought their sport on the opposite end of the grounds. That question was answered when he spotted her and his pace quickened, long strides unmistakably purposeful. For whatever reason, he clearly planned to intercept her.

Brienne did not relish the duke seeing her looking such fright—her legs dirty, dress damp, and hair out and drying in a wild tangle—but there was nothing for it. She walked to meet him head on, before stopping a few yards distant.

It was not Kingsland.

“What are you doing out here?” Brienne blurted as Jaime closed on her, his sharp, green eyes intently taking in her disheveled appearance in a way that made her feel utterly bared.

He blinked, as if startled by her voice.

“You’ve… misplaced your hat,” he observed, stare still focused.

“So it would seem, my lord,” she huffed out, in no mood for his teasing or the judgment behind his eyes. “Are you particularly concerned about my freckles?”

“I suppose I am at that,” he replied, his tone oddly contemplative.

For all her fraught emotion of the previous weeks, now that Jaime was standing in front of her once more, Brienne found that the dominant feeling was one of irritation at his addressing her as if they’d just spoken the previous eve.

“If you would be so kind as to answer my first question: what are you doing here?” Brienne asked again.

“The same as you I imagine,” he said casually, at last averting his eyes from her, if briefly. “I was invited, chit. I’m always invited, you know, part of being a Lannister.”

“I don’t mean at the house party,” she said, for that was obvious. She’d expected it, anticipated it, and hoped against it all at once. “I mean wandering about the grounds!”

“Mrs. Bolton told me that you’d gone for a ramble. I thought to meet you.”

Of all the things he might have said, this took her most by surprise.

“ _Why_?”

The easy grin that had begun to work its way across his face disappeared.

“I apologize.” His voice dripped exaggerated formality, but she could see hurt in the stiffening of his jaw. “I had not thought I would be an unwelcome intrusion on your solitude, miss.”

“No, you don’t!” The words burst from her as he inclined into an overdone bow. She could not stop them, or the ones that followed. “Don’t you dare get your back up! Not after you’ve ignored me for weeks on end when I was stupid enough to— when I thought— that we were friends.”

This stopped him in his tracks just as surely as recognizing him had her.

He eyed her for a moment before replying. “That was my understanding as well.”

It was a slow and careful proclamation, like a fawn making its way into a clearing.

“Friends do not simply drop each other,” Brienne said, merciless. She had not expected anything resembling the upper hand and she was not ready to relinquish it. She’d concentrated so much on her hurt, such a familiar state when she dared to feel the kind of affection she harbored for him, that she’d nearly forgotten her anger. Until now.

“I was occupied,” was his curt response.

“Yes, and we both know very well with whom you were occupied,” Brienne said, the words coming as if from someone else, somewhere else, poured into her and flowing, unbidden from her mouth. “So I cannot imagine why you are here instead of off with her!”

Anger flashed on Jaime’s face then as he took a sharp step towards her. Brienne stared into his eyes, close as they were now, unflinching.

“Because she won’t see me!” Jaime yelled. Then, just as quickly as it came, the rage receded. It wasn’t gone. He just seemed, of a sudden, too weary to access it. 

“And _I_ won’t see her. We ceased being in accord years ago. I was… delayed in my understanding. It’s ended. And I was— upset.”

It still pained him, that was obvious. Brienne could not say whether it was that realization or the fact of his statement that drained her fury. The small foolish part of her could not stifle its joy that, at the very least, he had not been in the Duchess of Kingsland’s arms. The greater part merely overpowered her with compassion.

“I see,” she said quietly.

He shook his head. “No, you don’t. It did not occur to me that my absence would be interpreted as a slight against you. I assure you I intended nothing of the sort. The very opposite.” He bit his lower lip, straight white teeth bright against his skin, as though nervous, and paused. 

“I was not… good company. You deserved better than I could offer you,” he finally finished.

Humiliatingly, Brienne felt her face heating. He was still looking at her with utter earnestness, an expression that was as rare on him as blushes were common on her.

For him, it was fleeting.

“There we are,” he chuckled after a moment, when she must have achieved sun brightness. “I’d hardly recognized you with so little red in your face.”

“You are abominable,” Brienne snapped.

“Oh, you already knew that,” Jaime replied disinterestedly.

Against her will, all odds, and all decency, Brienne smiled. Not a little smile or tight pressing of the lips, but a huge, wide smile that she knew must look ridiculous with her huge, wide mouth and teeth. There was no controlling it.

Jaime’s smile mirrored her own. “Have you forgiven me then? Will you accept my most heartfelt and sincere declaration of friendship?” he drawled theatrically.

Resistance seemed an exercise in futility.

“Provisionally,” Brienne allowed.

Jaime winced. “You are a hard woman, Miss Tarth.”

“Needs must.”

He looked at her oddly for just a blink before sweeping his arm towards the manor, offering to walk her back. She proceeded and he fell in step beside her, months of familiarity returning in a few heartbeats.

“Come, friend,” Jaime declared, never able to allow silence for very long. “Let us speak of friendly things! How are you enjoying your stay at scenic Harrenhal?”

“It’s quite pleasant,” Brienne said noncommittally. As they neared the manor and the house party, her concerns regarding it began to crowd back.

“You’ve not yet been trapped in conversation with our host have you? I’m fairly certain the man’s heart stopped beating years ago and the rest of him has just refused to acknowledge it.”

Brienne pursed her lips hiding a smile. “I have not. But Mrs. Bolton is quite sweet.”

“I’m sure an odder match has been made somewhere. At some point. In history.” Jaime said.

“It stands to reason,” she replied. “When did you arrive?”

“Late last night,” he said. “By the time I rose this morning I seemed to be the only guest remaining.”

That explained why he had not been present at breakfast. Brienne tore her eyes away from his profile to watch the manor growing larger in the distance. She battled with herself before making up her mind and speaking again.

“The ladies went into town for shopping and the gentlemen out onto the grounds for sport,” she explained, though he was surely already aware. 

“Your cousin was among them,” she finished, and prided herself on not hesitating before the word “cousin.”

Contrary to Brienne’s worries, Jaime seemed nonplussed.

“Yes, if I’m not mistaken one of the Frey boys has some cattle he wishes to purchase. Otherwise he would not bestir himself for so prosaic an entertainment, I assure you.”

“He seemed to enjoy himself last night,” Brienne said. “He spoke to Sansa at length.”

Jaime stopped walking and set a hand on Brienne’s elbow to stop her as well. He studied her face, then smiled.

“You’re worried for your little friend,” he declared confidently. “You needn’t. The one good thing I can say of Joffrey is that he has other sources of amusement than despoiling virgins, if only because it’s far too much effort.”

Brienne frowned at him, though she had only their familiarity to thank for the fact that she wasn’t blushing.

“Why I even bother to tell you to mind your language, I don’t know,” she said. “And she is not just my friend. She is my charge.”

“Are you a chaperone now?” Jaime scoffed, clearly amused. “A bit early to take up that post isn’t it? You can’t be more than one and twenty.”

“Three and twenty, my lord,” Brienne replied stiffly. Why he should pretend as though she was not clearly fit for little _but_ chaperonage, she did not know.

“My apologies,” he declared, eyes dancing. “You are positively ancient. Your life is over. Certainly fit for nothing more now than chasing ne’er-do-wells like Kingsland out from under the skirts of pretty little misses.”

“Tease me all you like,” Brienne said, face reddening, “but how can you be so cavalier in your opinion of your…Your. You know who he is.”

The edge of humor drained from Jaime’s face and his voice was low when he replied.

“If we are to be friends you must know me for who I am,” he said, steel in his tone. “He is not my son. Never say so. He has never known himself to be such and he never will. That decision was made long ago.” And he was clearly invested in pretending that it did not matter to him, Brienne noticed. Perhaps it did not. It was sad either way.

He snorted. “Luckily, that gives me leave to have as unflatteringly accurate an evaluation of him as I like. He’s a useless boy: lazy, over-indulged, selfish, and none too bright. The other two at least are not entirely hopeless. But in neither case does it owe anything at all to me, so don’t look at me that way.”

“I’m not looking at you in any particular fashion, my lord,” Brienne protested.

“You always are!” Jaime said with a laugh, though Brienne did not see what was so funny. “From the moment I met you I haven’t been able to escape those eyes.”

To that, Brienne had no response but another blush. He took pity on her then and did not press the topic, instead, placed her hand on his arm and started them towards the house once more.

“Did you enjoy your commune with nature?” he asked a few minutes later.

“Very much.” Brienne made no attempt to conceal the depth of her pleasure.

“You like the country, then?” he asked.

Brienne nodded. “It was all I knew for most of my life. I came out late and our family’s estate does not lack for woodlands or beaches.”

“And how does Harrenhal compare?”

“Oh, it does not at all!” Brienne exclaimed. “It could not. My family is named after the island where our ancestral estate was once located. It still owns that land, though we have moved our dwellings further inland. We holiday there still and the blue of its waters is beyond compare.”

He was looking at her face as she spoke, a small smile on his own.

“I doubt that,” he said softly, then, looking away: “I should like to see it someday.”

Her traitorous heart sped up. “You would have to ask my father about that,” she demurred.

“He’s an extremely reasonable and generous man, is he not?”

Brienne eyed Jaime suspiciously. “You are very full of questions of a sudden, my lord.”

“Well, you have always been full of mysteries,” he countered.

Brienne scoffed. “You once told me yourself that I was aggressively uninteresting.”

“Even I can be wrong from time to time,” he said flippantly. “Besides, even then I acknowledged that a young lady who fences at the premier club in London clearly has more to her than expected.”

At this reference to fencing, Brienne’s eyes went to Jaime’s right arm. He’d offered her his left to take and the other he’d kept most at his side.

“How fares your arm?” she asked.

Jaime’s face remained impassive. “As well as can be expected. I’m afraid I would give you little sport in a match if that’s what you were thinking.”

Her brow furrowed with her concern. She knew that he’d gone through great pains to exercise it when he was staying with the Starks and she’d thought it was recovering. He’d even abandoned his sling entirely on the day he left and clearly had not availed himself it again.

“Have you tried?” she pressed.

“Briefly,” he murmured.

“And you’ve since given up?” she said incredulously. He was the most talented swordsman she’d ever seen and she knew how much he enjoyed it. She could not believe that he would simply let it go.

“I was in no fit state to be bothered,” he said a little tartly. Ah, so he’d been wallowing.

“Well, you’re clearly much improved,” Brienne said. “Surely you can be bothered now.”

He tossed her a look of fond frustration. “Is that an invitation?”

“If you wish it to be,” Brienne replied.

He faced forward again. They were nearly to the house. Close enough, in fact, that a pair of footmen had come out to tend to them already. They waited at the head of the drive.

“From you,” Jaime said finally. “I’ll accept."

“And I will hold you to it,” Brienne warned. “Tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sure it will be a pleasure,” Jaime said softly, a wry smile on his lips, and Brienne could not tell which of them he was mocking.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parlour games.

  
banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

The logistics of their match proved a conundrum. Jaime’s pride resisted an audience much as Brienne’s sense of duty resisted leaving Sansa to her own devices in the absence of a heavily chaperoned shopping trip. Neither party being willing to abandon their individual concerns entirely, a heated debate was met after breakfast. The compromise, once reached, owed more to Lady Sansa than it did either Brienne or Jaime. Sansa wished to take the air and practice her watercolors with a few of the young ladies who had immediately jumped at the chance to be her particular friend for the week. At length, Brienne convinced Jaime that sparring a few yards distant of the ladies, otherwise occupied, would suffice.

They arranged themselves in the direction directly opposite the idyllic pond the girls had chosen for their paintings. And, after further consideration, a bit off to one side, half-shielded by a copse of trees, whereupon Jaime was satisfied that very little would be seen by anyone but them and Peck, who was acting the footman and seeing to their gear in deference to his paranoid master.

They’d been made to use what Mr. Bolton had about, as neither of them had packed for the trip thinking to fence upon their arrival. Though, as Brienne had intended to ride and perhaps partake of some shooting, she was in possession of more appropriate clothing than she had ever been privileged to in London. It was with great relish that she’d dressed in shirtsleeves, waistcoat, trousers, and a simple neckcloth, all under a smart dark blue coat that flared at the waist. It was far closer to the attire of her father’s youth than anything that the bucks swarming about Harrenhal would consider of the mode, but Brienne did not care for fashion, only function.

Sansa had no objection as she had seen Brienne in such attire numerous times at Winterfell. Her companions gave Brienne the typical range of odd looks. Jaime simply stared at her appraisingly for a moment, but made no comment.

When they ranged themselves across from each other, foils in hand, Jaime did not seem to hold it any differently than he ever had, nor was there any alteration to his flippant salute. It was only upon crossed blades that Brienne could tell the difference. Her first parry threw him completely off balance as he struggled to keep hold of his weapon. The tip of her foil was pointed at his chest, pure reflex, before he had looked back up at her.

He quirked his eyebrows, challenging. He was either daring her to give up immediately, name him hopeless and accept that he was done, or he was expecting her to do so and wished to be prepared.

Instead, Brienne dropped the point of her sword and stepped back, moving into position again.

“ _En garde_ , my lord,” she said.

He hesitated, clearly unsure how approach her casual acceptance of his drastic loss of ability.

“Are you giving up so easily, my lord?” Brienne asked. “Or are you merely that afraid of losing?”

Jaime snorted. “I’m no craven.”

“Then, _en. Garde,_ ” Brienne repeated.

They continued, Brienne feeling him out, adjusting her movements to match and counter his. It soon became clear that his grip strength was nearly what it had been, but the greater concern was the dexterity of his arm. His handsome features twisted in frustration as flourishes that had been like breathing for him before proved themselves either painful or beyond his capabilities. Even so, Brienne could still note markers of his preternatural skill with a blade, his instincts, his footwork, the beauty of his movements in moments when he managed to execute a strike or a parry perfectly. The swordsman he had been was still there. It would only take time, Brienne thought. Even as their session continued she could note improvement on his part. 

It was thus quite perplexing when, after very nearly parrying a killing strike from Brienne, Jaime disengaged of a sudden.

“That’s enough,” he said roughly, brow furrowed as he stared at her, on the edge of fury.

“What?” Brienne asked incredulously. “It’s hardly been two hours. You’re improving al-“

“I said, that’s _enough_ ,” he insisted, and Brienne realized that his angry gaze was not directed towards her, but beyond her.

She spun around to find that a few of Sansa’s companions had apparently tired of their watercolors. They had crept across the distance and stood now, leaning against a tree and doggedly pretending that they had not just been staring intently. Their color was high and Brienne knew immediately that it could be owed to Jaime having doffed his coat and cravat. He had also opened the buttons on his waistcoat and his linen shirt fairly gaped at the collar, revealing a not-insubstantial sliver of skin.

“They’re just girls,” Brienne said, cajoling.

“And yet still capable of both sight and speech,” he gritted out.

“If you worry they’ll tell tales, I’m certain they’re paying far more attention to the width of your shoulders-”

“Must you be so stubborn?” Jaime snarled, throwing his foil to the ground. Behind him, Peck seemed caught between the desire to pick it up and reluctance to approach his master during his current fit of pique. “I said that I’m done.” The agitation that had carried him through their long debate that morning had receded while they fought, but now she could see it rushing back, stiffening his shoulders and chilling his voice. “You don’t understand. I’ll not be stared at, subject to such looks of pity from-“

All at once, Brienne’s ire rose to match. “ _I_ don’t understand that? You mean the sort of pity with which I am regarded by most women who meet me, the instant they look at my face and form? Or perhaps you’d rather enjoy the novelty of the disgust that some level at me because I do not meet their standard for a proper young lady? Or should you prefer to sample the searing resentment from men whom I disabuse of the notion that they can treat me like a lightskirt because I’m so mannish and ugly that my virtue is meaningless? Looks and stares do nothing. I’ve survived them. You will too.”

He stepped towards her, one hand slowly raising, his face softening. Aware of their audience, Brienne moved away before he could touch her. He dropped his hand and looked at her studiously for a long moment during which Brienne’s embarrassment at her outburst crept its way up her neck to blare from her cheeks.

At last, Jaime spoke, his voice soft, but determined. “I would strike down any man who looked at you that way— for that reason. Know that.”

Brienne swallowed thickly and she felt the hint of a smile twisting her mouth at his bombastic pledge.

“Then you will most definitely need all the practice you can manage,” she replied.

Jaime sighed heavily, eyes closed.

“Stubborn chit,” he muttered. But he picked up the foil.

 

 

The next few days fell into a routine. They broke their fast together, then sparred in the morning, in clearings and on patios. Wherever they could find a bit of privacy, but still keep Sansa within sight. After refreshing themselves, they would then submit to their hosts’ entertainments for the rest of the day. These consisted of large amounts of food and drink, loud conversation—owed primarily to Mrs. Bolton’s relatives, card games with stakes just low enough to bore the gentlemen present, and endless displays of the company’s rather dubious talents for song, instrument, and verse. 

Seating arrangements separated Brienne from both Sansa and Jaime at dinner, though the latter took to catching her eye from down the table by pulling faces and otherwise making clear his less than complimentary opinion of his dinner companions’ conversation. Sansa remained absorbed as ever in every word that fell from the Duke of Kingsland’s often pouting lips, but never objected to staying at Brienne’s side upon adjourning to the parlor. 

Jaime, conversely, made very clear that in an ideal world he would never be expected to reappear after port. Brienne could fault him little for this, given the attention he garnered from the majority of the ladies present. It was much akin to the sort of attention a pack of hunting dogs afforded a fox. Befitting the comparison, Jaime was cunning and proved exceptionally skilled at dodging both introductions to misses and innuendo from matrons and widows.

Instead he amused himself primarily with hovering near Brienne as she played cards and ceaselessly critiquing her strategy. When Brienne chanced to suggest that he make use of his considerable status to simply beg off and go do whatever he pleased elsewhere, Jaime only scoffed and teased that if he did she would never win another hand of loo. Thus distracted with trying to play her hand as she, and not Jaime, pleased, Brienne was taken entirely by surprise when, with most of the elder guests having already retired, Mrs. Bolton announced that a less sedate amusement was to be desired.

“We shall have a round of hide-and-seek!” she said, clapping her plump little hands together.

The young ladies present, Sansa included, approved immediately with such ardency and volume that Brienne knew any protests she raised would find no supporters. It was inviting danger and impropriety to have young gentlemen and young ladies skulk about the manor deliberately looking for shadowy corners and abandoned rooms. But with the hostess endorsing and overseeing, Brienne was left with little recourse.

Jaime made his own concerns quite clear with a rather eloquent string of profanity under his breath while Mrs. Bolton, none the wiser, chose one of her Frey relatives—a brother or a cousin, Brienne had little idea—to be the first seeker.

“Well, as I will have no more hands of cards requiring your tyrannical oversight, you truly can retire to your room,” Brienne said to him as nearby a debate broke out over how high the unidentified Frey should count before commencing his hunt.

Jaime scoffed. “And have one of these misses follow me up and decide to ‘hide’ in my bedchamber? I think not.”

Brienne wanted to deny that anyone would attempt to trap him so blatantly, but given that she was well aware that any number of ladies would indeed do just that, the words would not clear her throat.

“Then what do you plan?” Brienne asked, though the way he had shuffled closer to her as the company prepared to set off into the manor gave her every indication.

“You’ve recently held your skills as a chaperone in high regard,” Jaime said, eyes wide and full of excessively innocent pleading. “Surely you would lend them to a friend in need.”

Brienne narrowed her own eyes at him, but the call to hide went out before she could respond. She and Jaime both were buffeted by the sea of aristocratic youth rushing to the parlor doors. Sansa’s bright hair was easily identifiable even in the crush, and Brienne saw that she was arm-in-arm with two other young ladies before they disappeared around a corner with a questionably lady-like shriek and fit of giggling.

Brienne made to follow only to find her movement abruptly arrested. She investigated the phenomenon and discovered that Jaime had looped his fingers through the back of her sash and was quite deliberately going in the opposite direction.

“My lord!” she exclaimed. 

“We want to get _away_  from the chattering magpies, if you happen to recall,” he said, as though she were the one being unreasonable.

Brienne swatted at his hand, forcing him to release her sash, though he only claimed one of the folds of her skirt instead.

“Do _you_  happen to recall that you are a grown man, my lord?” He did not look at all chagrined, and Brienne huffed violently before turning to follow the others. Jaime, with a long-suffering sigh and a persistent grip on her skirt, followed. 

“You are a grown man,” Brienne repeated as she strode past the library and a billiard room that were both too commonly used to be likely hiding spots. “And as a consequence of being a grown man, not actually my charge.”

“Lady Sansa is surrounded by an entire court of young misses. She couldn’t get into any trouble if she wanted to do so,” he said firmly. “And, frankly, your lack of concern for the very present danger that I face is quite callous, chit.” 

Brienne shushed him. The sounds of shuffling and hushed voices emanated from a hall up ahead. Brienne proceeded towards it only to be pulled nearly off her feet as Jaime suddenly tugged her into a darkened room. He let the door swing closed behind them with a click, arm still firm around Brienne’s waist, before arranging them against the wall next to the entryway. 

So close was their proximity that, for a moment, he filled her vision: green eyes gleaming as her own adjusted to the near darkness, the sharp slope of his nose, a fall of golden hair against his brow. The scent of him, cheroot and sandalwood, clouded her thoughts. Brienne screwed her eyes shut, then upon opening them, averted her gaze from his face to take in the rest of the room. It was an office, she could see past Jaime’s ear, with a tall window letting moonlight fall across a massive oak desk. Perhaps Mr. Bolton’s own where he absconded to dourly conduct dour business with his cold eyes and whispery tones. Dreadfully dull business, she imagined. Perhaps poring over columns of numbers with a somber man of business dressed all in greys.

Mind reinforced against Jaime’s nearness by such considerations, Brienne opened her mouth to scold him, but he pressed two fingers to her lips, silencing her before more than a syllable had escaped. He darted his eyes deliberately towards the door and, focusing her attention as he indicated, Brienne heard it. Above the blood rushing in her ears and heating her face, Brienne detected footsteps out in the hall. Slow and measured, they paused intermittently, lost beneath the creak of doors opening, then closing again. The Frey seeker. Brienne’s heart beat rapidly in her ears a dozen times, Jaime’s large, warm fingers still pressed against her mouth, before the door beside them opened just a crack. It remained open only long enough for Brienne to spy the tip of a long nose before it closed again and the footsteps retreated.

At last, Brienne pushed Jaime’s hand away. “I don’t care about winning the bloody game!” she whispered fiercely, more irritated with her own inaction these last minutes than with him. Jaime grinned hugely at her, teeth white in the darkness, and Brienne realized what she’d said. Her blushing intensified and she expected that soon her face would be bright enough to illuminate the room.

“Such language!” Jaime said with affected archness. “And you should care about not losing, at least. If you’re caught then you’ll have to go back and sit in the parlour and who knows what your little Lady Sansa might get into while you’re so unjustly imprisoned.”

“It’s not funny,” Brienne said, but the smile threatening to break across her own face belied her stern words.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Jaime said. He backed away at last, but only enough that Brienne felt a sudden chill absent the warmth of his body nearly flush with hers.

Oh, he was a danger. Such a danger to her still and she was a fool for ever thinking otherwise. “If matrimonial designs distress you so much, you could just leave the house party,” she heard herself say.

The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk, but his green eyes were flinty, daring.

“That eager to be rid of me, eh?”

Brienne swallowed once, thickly. “That’s not what I said.”

“Of course it isn’t.” The smirk bloomed into another grin. “You adore having me around.”

“I didn’t say that either.” His left hand was flat against the wall just above her shoulder. She should ask him to move. She should demand that he move. Brienne did not.

“Ah, Miss Tarth,” he crooned. “Still so cruel, your praise so rare and so stingy.”

“I highly doubt you need praise from me,” Brienne replied. “There are any number of people who would be glad to massage your sense of self-worth, though it needs little assistance.”

“Yes, and then they would be just as glad to eviscerate me with gossip the moment my back is turned.” This was said without real bitterness. “I’ve told you before. I prefer you.”

Her face, impossibly, got hotter, her ears burning. Jaime noted it, his eyes flickering to her ears and then back to her countenance, and he laughed. Brienne bristled to be so easily manipulated, and at him taking such amusement from provoking reactions. Before she could voice an objection, he let out a low sigh, his breath warm against her neck.

“Christ, but I missed you,” he said.

“Language-“ Brienne began, by rote.

“-My Lord, I know,” Jaime finished.

He was still staring at her, his eyes fixed on her face.

“You know,” Brienne managed. “You just prefer to be dreadful at every opportunity.”

“If I wasn’t dreadful at whom would you make stern faces?” he asked softly. He shifted, just a bit, on his feet, and it brought him closer yet again. If she took a very deep breath, her chest would brush against his. She didn’t know if he’d done it on purpose.

“Before our acquaintance I had little need for stern faces.”

He shook his head ruefully, a fond smile curving his mouth.

“You still haven’t learned that you simply cannot lie with those eyes,” Jaime said. Brienne only looked at him, entranced. He was so close again and there was no hope of distraction. His eyes pinned her, his gaze penetrating and intent.

“It’s better this way,” he said, voice dropped to such a low volume that even so near, she barely heard him. “That you don’t know. Elsewise, what a danger you’d be…”

Brienne blinked, and Jaime traversed the last of the distance between them and pressed his mouth to hers. His lips were soft and warm. He moved them gently, dotting tiny nibbling kisses across her wide mouth, each one sending a frisson through her. A potent, pulsing shock, making her fingers and toes tingle and heat bloom in her belly. Brienne sighed against his mouth and he took the opportunity to insinuate his upper lip between both of hers. He darted out his tongue as he moved his mouth more firmly now, sipping at her like a glass of ratafia. His hand was a brand at her waist and he slid it slowly backwards to flex his fingers right above the curve of her bottom. Her skirts rustled as he stepped into her, their bodies flush. He brought his right hand to her face to curve about her cheek. 

Brienne melted into him and, tentatively, mirrored his movements. She had no point of reference, no skill, only the hot press of him against her as a guide. He groaned, a low rumbling sound, and Brienne felt lightheaded. She half expected to wake in her bed, alone and wanting, for surely it had to be a dream. She’d known for so long—it could only ever be a dream. No matter how she wished it Jaime would never— _no one_ would ever… unless…

Before Brienne could even think it, her hand rose up and struck, like a viper. The slap was deafening in the quiet room. Jaime released her.

“Is it- is it another-“ she began, unable to think, unable to see, for a moment, any other option. But no, a voice said. That was over. And this was Jaime. Cruelty through deception was not his way. It was always his honesty that would undo her. Her voice died out, but he had found his.

“I apologize-“ he said in a rush, his eyes wide. “I didn’t mean…” He didn’t mean anything at all. She could see it on his face. An impulse, a base male urge, nothing more, as surprising to him, perhaps, as it had been to her.

“You didn’t mean to take liberties?” Brienne said, hardening her voice, hardening her heart.

“No! Of course not. I just…”

“You just what?” She needed him to say it, to stamp out the lingering embers of her hope. He only looked at her, struggling for words.

“Am I to understand that you have intentions, my lord?” she continued implacably. “Was it a declaration?”

“No,” he blurted and she did not flinch. “I don’t know- I-“

Brienne moved from the wall, swept past him, gave him her back. “Never tell me you were intending to make me amenable to a proposal?” she asked. “Such an incredible turnaround of opinion and from a man who’d sought nothing but to escape even the merest hint of matrimony not an hour ago.”

“Brienne!” he shouted, a command or an entreaty, she could not tell.

“I did not give you leave to use my Christian name.”

“Listen to me.” He crossed the room to her, and took her by her shoulders, forced her to face him again. “I did not mean to offend you,” he said. “You were…close, and I wasn’t thinking—”

“If you would unhand me.”

“Brienne,” he said again, as she pulled away from his grasp.

“I must go.” The door was only a few feet away. Her bedchamber a few yards, a flight of stairs. She could make it that far. Her legs were already moving.

“Brienne, please--”

“Think nothing more of it. I shall not,” she said as she fled through the door. Her body carried her through the halls while her traitorous mind thought of nothing else but the press of Jaime against her, transporting her, and the hot rush of humiliation that had brought her back to Earth. 

She did not even remember Sansa until the girl appeared from the opposite direction, making the trek to her own rooms directly across from Brienne’s. She did not speak to Brienne, barely acknowledged her and Brienne knew in an instant something was wrong. Sansa’s face was flushed, her eyes watery. Not so different, just this once, Brienne thought, from her own.

Brienne knew what she should do, knew what her duty dictated, but it had taken all the strength she had to push Jaime away, to leave him there. Sansa disappeared into her rooms and Brienne did not follow.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The futility of denial.

Brienne, unsurprisingly, was avoiding him.

The morning after the disastrous game of hide-and-seek, Jaime woke to a note. His valet left it on the stand next to the wash basin. Jaime knew what it said before he so much as broke the seal. Miss Tarth was begging off from their appointment to spar. He could not claim surprise or blame her for being reluctant to find herself alone in his company.

He had kissed her. 

Jaime Lannister had been presented with countless opportunities to kiss any number of women in his life—from unsullied young misses to bored matrons to lusty widows to trained courtesans. He had been tempted on occasion, he was a red-blooded man of no little vigor, but he had never, ever indulged. He’d only ever wanted one woman, for all the good it had done him. But if he was going to begin… sampling there were many better choices than an inexperienced miss whose reputation could be ruined for it.

True, there was no denying that he was fond of the chit. Very fond. Nor could he pretend that it was a wholly new desire. The sight of her walking out of the woods that first day had all but burned itself onto the insides of his eyelids. She would never be a beauty, but just then striding forth, hair wild and damp muslin clinging to the long, strong lines of her, countless freckles marking out constellations on her skin, she had seemed otherworldly. A pagan goddess ready to smite all who would dare approach.

Jaime had been struck for a long moment, and was only brought back to himself by her sharp words. No, it wasn’t that he couldn’t imagine kissing her. He had done so then and on more than one occasion since. It was that he had somehow taken sufficient leave of his senses to actually submit to the impulse. He had stared into her plain, freckled face and her huge, lovely eyes and it was done before he’d known it had begun. His heart had leapt, had ached with a kind of longing that he had never felt before. Except perhaps for Cersei. But that was a ridiculous comparison. No two creatures in existence could have less in common than Brienne Tarth and Cersei Lannister.

Cersei, who had whispered in his father’s ear that Jaime was thinking of marrying. Enough impetus to make the great Lord Casterly bestir himself to provide Jaime an annotated list of acceptable choices. He had burned it at the first opportunity. Jaime had no intention of marrying any of them, no intention of marrying at all, in fact. Yet, he had still set out for Harrenhal where the bulk of the list would be present.

It was a habit. He attended every year. All in all, it was an inoffensive event. He hardly had anything better to do with himself. It would keep both his father and Cersei satisfied that he was doing their bidding for the immediate future. 

There was an entire litany of perfectly rational reasons he could tell himself, that he _had_ told himself, for why he made the trip to Harrenhal. But only one came to mind when he let the cacophony of justifications die down: Brienne would be there.

Brienne would be there and he had missed her. Brienne was here and he was missing her now. Because he had fantastically, idiotically mucked things up. Because he had kissed her.

 

For a woman of her stature, Brienne proved very good at hiding herself. She did not appear in the breakfast room at the usual time nor any time during the surrounding hours. Subtle investigation revealed that she had taken her meal in her room, and one of the maids even told Peck that Miss Tarth had definitely emerged at some point, though where she went from there was anyone’s guess.

Jaime turned his attention to Lady Sansa’s whereabouts, reasoning that wherever the little Stark went, Brienne would never be far behind. But Lady Sansa too was nowhere to be found and his options for further inquiry on that score were distasteful at best. He preferred to avoid so much as breathing in the direction of the bright-eyed girls she called friends, and her favored suitor was Joffrey, whom Jaime spent as little time with as he possibly could. How much of that was habit and how much simple preference was one of many things he studiously avoided examining.

The next hours were wiled away in surreptitious search of various points of interest within the manor and on the grounds. At length, Jaime’s pride could bear up under such an assault no longer, and he abandoned the search, choosing instead to fix himself at a billiards table, which he had found to be useful for practicing fine and subtle movement with his right hand, until he needed to dress for dinner.

There, in the Boltons’ massive dining room, his search finally ended when both Lady Sansa and Brienne appeared for the evening meal. Brienne looked well in a conservative blue gown and bore no signs of falling into a decline or being otherwise significantly altered. She would not, however, meet his eyes down the table or so much as look in his direction. The inane natterings over port in a smoke-filled study seemed to take even longer than usual after the meal, and Jaime was convinced that by the time he made it to the parlor, Brienne would have found some excuse to retire back to her room where he could not reach her.

Blessedly, she did not and he found her seated near the piano as Sansa played to the effusive delight of the people gathered nearby. Jaime maneuvered, glared, and even pushed his way through to take the seat beside Brienne. She gave him the barest nod of acknowledgement, as if they were little more than acquaintances, but he saw the flush beginning on her neck when he leaned in closer.

“We should talk,” Jaime said, pitching his voice low enough that no one but her would hear it over the music.

“We are speaking right now,” Brienne said flatly.

“Privately,” he insisted.

“My lord, there is nothing you need to say to me that requires privacy.”

Jaime bristled. Why did she have to make this so blasted difficult? “Don’t you believe I should be the one to determine that?”

She still would not look at him. “I believe that I’ve had more than enough of your decision-making.”

Fine then. If she was set on being stubborn, he could be as well. They could have this out right here.

“I apologized,” he began.

“Yes, more than once. I did not ask you to.” 

“Nor did you accept any of them, despite the fact that you seem to require some sort of penance as evidenced by your hiding from me all day.”

“Fine,” Brienne replied firmly. “Your apology is accepted.”

Jaime stared at her profile as she sat, still as a statue. He wanted to take her by the shoulders, hold her face in his hands, force her to look at him.

“I have a difficult time believing that when you’re still acting like this.”

“Acting like what?” she demanded. “The only thing I am doing is being abominably rude by whispering with you while my very good friend is in the middle of a performance on the pianoforte.”

“Brienne,” he growled. Just her name, though somehow more pleading than gruff. At last, she turned to him, though he wished she had not. Her blue eyes were fierce, but so very sad, her face drawn, as if she was wearied by the effort of just being near him.

“I did not fault you for your error. I spoke of it to no one and I have no intention of doing so. I told you never to mind it and even when you ignored that I accepted the apology you offered nevertheless. I have asked nothing of you.” She sighed deeply, and her voice broke when she continued. “What more could you _possibly_ ask of me?”

Jaime did not answer. For all his searching and sullenness, he had no answer. None that was fair or right. What could he ask of her after his foolishness, after so betraying their friendship? For her to ignore her own discomfort and upset, to stay close to him and amuse him and bicker with him regardless of how she might feel about it? To spend her mornings sparring with a broken, old cripple, her days laughing at his jests, and her evenings suffering his teasing? And to do it all for no other reason than that he wanted her to, because he was lonely. Because he didn’t have anyone else.

He had sworn to cut down any man who used her ill and not for a moment considered his own guilt in that quarter. Lady Sansa reached the crescendo of her piece, lilting notes rising higher before a last deep calm. Jaime excused himself as the applause began.

He considered the billiards room, but it was crowded with more men than he felt like being forced to socialize with at the moment. Being alone in his own rooms with his thoughts did not seem particularly appealing either. He ended up in one of the smaller sitting rooms, where card games were being played. He joined a game of whist to which he paid very little attention.

Jaime shared the table with an unremarkable boy of no more than eighteen whose name he did not ask and did not care to have, a weaselly fellow he was half certain was a Frey cousin of his by way of his Aunt Genna, and a large man with a thick ginger beard called Connington.

For the first few hands, they spoke only as much as the game required, which suited Jaime perfectly. But once Connington made it through his glass of wine—one of many, Jaime imagined—he became more talkative, and he very quickly hit upon the last line of conversation Jaime was interested in pursuing.

“You know Viscount Evenfall’s daughter, don’t you?” Connington asked, eyes gleaming.

Jaime only nodded and, with deliberately exaggerated movements, played a card. Connington was unperturbed.

“Is it true she’s been going about in breeches early in the mornings?”

“At times,” Jaime answered, hoping the clear chill in his voice would end Connington’s obnoxious inquiry.

Connington snorted at this. “Some people never change, I suppose,” he muttered before quieting. Except now, it was Jaime’s interest that was piqued.

“Are you acquainted with Miss Tarth?” he asked as Connington waved over a servant to fetch him a fresh glass.

“More than acquainted!” Connington exclaimed. “Our fathers betrothed us when I was barely breeched and she in swaddling clothes.”

The murmur of conversation and other sounds in the room ceased with the swiftness of a candle blown out. All Jaime heard was a distant buzzing in his ears.

“You are… to be wed?” he managed, words stilted. In all of their conversations, in all the months they’d spent together, she had never once mentioned an engagement.

“Were. I went to visit her some years back,” said Connington forcefully. “She was still in the schoolroom and could look me in the eye even then. I had only to see her to know that she wouldn’t suit me or any other man. I gave her a flower and cried off. I could hardly credit it when she actually came out in London years later. Bigger and uglier than ever. Don’t know how the boys could stomach that bet on her virtue. No one ever did claim it though. I suppose they all lost their nerve as soon as they took a look at—“

Jaime did not know when he had risen, but it was with such force that his chair was upended with a clatter, and he struck Connington across the face so hard that the man’s chair was knocked over as well, with him in it. A woman screamed over the sound of splintering wood and a clamor of voices and footsteps followed.

Jaime ignored it all, kneeling over Connington where he lay sprawled on the parquet floor spitting blood, and grabbed his cravat and the front of his vest in one tight handful.

Connington was wild-eyed and incredulous.

“If you were not already half a cripple I would have you name your friends!” he shouted.

“Her name is Miss Tarth,” he said, eyes boring into Connington’s, his blood hot in his veins. “You claim to be a gentleman and you are speaking of a peer’s daughter, a future peeress in her own right. You will call her by her name and you will use it with respect or you will not speak of her at all. Say it.”

“Miss Tarth,” Connington sneered. “Miss Brienne Tarth.”

Jaime released him, the fury, near-blinding as it had been, finally receding such that he could register his surroundings once more. Nearly everyone in the house had piled into the room, staring and whispering and having cases of the vapors. And there, at the center, with a wide-eyed Lady Sansa clinging to one arm, was Brienne. Jaime scrambled to his feet. Brienne’s eyes were huge with shock, but more than that, her expression as she looked at him was one of confusion, of utter bafflement. And at that moment, the realization broke over Jaime like a sudden drenching downpour washing away all of the justifications and rationalizations and outright lies he’d told himself. 

He was infatuated with her. He was absolutely, absurdly infatuated with Brienne Tarth. He ignored the gasps and whispers and shouts as he broke through the crowd and fled, like a coward, to his room.

A few hours worth of pacing—with a brief respite to write a note of apology to the host and hostess—did nothing to improve his situation. But there was little that could improve a situation such as his: a grown man of seven and thirty nursing a ridiculous _tendre_  for a debutante. It was the kind of thing that should have been gotten over with decades past, but, of course, much like his failure to sample the more carnal pleasures, back then he’d had neither the time or inclination to become besotted with every intriguing thing in skirts that wandered by. There’d only been Cersei, completely filling every corner of his vision.

And now he was left thus, twenty years later, an overgrown schoolboy with no recourse, for Brienne wasn’t a courtesan or a widow or anyone else with whom he could have an affair until they tired of each other. He was no debaucher of virgins and he had no intention of being so. Brienne should marry, would marry despite her apparent belief otherwise, and she neither should or would marry him, even if he wished it, and matrimonial wishes were a thing of the past for him. He could seduce her. The way she had responded to his kiss, strong body melting deliciously into his, let him know that she was in no way immune to him. But she would be even angrier at him afterwards, eventually, for taking away her future for a moment of succor, just because his was desolate. And she’d be right to be.

The best thing he could possibly do for her would be to leave her alone. As he’d tried to do tonight before turning around and doubtless making them the talk of the house party by knocking down a man for speaking poorly of her. It was almost funny, the near-farcical nature of the thing, or it would have been, if it hadn’t been happening to him.

Light scratching at his dressing room door broke his train of thought. His valet, Lew, returning to help him undress. Except, when Jaime called for Lew to come in, Brienne appeared.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, unblinking. If he blinked, he half expected her to reveal herself to be an apparition created by his clearly fevered mind. Not that her attire was really the sort of thing a man would dream up, except in that she was prepared for bed. Her hair had been released from its chignon and arranged in an only slightly less severe braid down her back. Her clothing, well, he could only guess at most of it, in all honesty. She wore a massive brocade dressing gown, blue with a pattern of starbursts and crescent moons. The amount of fabric managed to make even Brienne look too small for it and though tied tight it revealed not so much as a hint of her figure. All that was visible besides her hands and her head was a large pair of pale, freckled feet, ensconced in slippers that peeked out from beneath the hem of her absurd wrapper. 

It was, by far, the least seductive apparel he’d ever seen, and yet so quintessentially Brienne that his cock twitched in his breeches like a dog catching a scent.

“I wanted- I wanted to thank you,” she said. He was moving towards her against his volition, and he was oddly proud of her for not staggering backwards. “For downstairs. It was-“

“Particularly violent,” Jaime supplied. “But satisfying.”

“Yes,” she agreed mildly.

A scant foot from her, he managed to call up all the reasons he should stop. “You really shouldn’t be here.”

She sniffed. “Of course not, but I didn’t know if you’d leave. Because of the altercation. I didn’t want to miss you.” She eyed him dubiously and it was embarrassing the way his chest lifted at it. “Since when does propriety concern you?”

“Since I realized all the ways I could have wronged you by ignoring it,” he replied.

She blushed, and blood rushed and pooled far lower in his own body in response.

“I was angry,” she said. She was wringing her hands together, the wide sleeves of her dressing robe slipping down over them as she fidgeted. “When you…kissed me. I thought that it was just a- that you didn’t care. That you thought _I_ shouldn’t care because of- the way I look, but it’s obvious now. It’s not that you don’t care. You just don’t _think_.”

Jaime laughed, a sudden loud bark of mirth that he couldn’t hold back. Brienne’s brow furrowed.

“Well, it’s true. Certainly, Ronnet Connington has deserved to be knocked down for quite sometime, but in the middle of a Harrenhal sitting room, really?”

He wanted to tell her to leave now before he proceeded with not thinking again.

“I truly am sorry,” he said instead, sincerely. “About the kiss. It was an awful thing for me to do to you. I understand that.”

She reddened further, her eyes glancing off at various other points in the room besides his face. “I wouldn’t say that it was _awful_ ,” she allowed.

Jaime grinned. “Well, I feel damned with rather faint praise.”

“It was nice,” she said, finally meeting his eyes again. “Nice to know what it felt like, just this once.”

“This once? You’ll be kissed many more times,” Jaime said, though he misliked the thought. “Just as well if you’re lucky.”

Brienne’s small, sad smile held genuine amusement. Jaime knew with a sudden certainty, before she even opened her mouth, that he was about to be lost. 

“No,” she said simply. “I won’t.”

He drew her to him and she came willingly, his hands cradling her face as he pressed his lips to hers. Her lips were even softer than the night before, she tasted even sweeter as she opened her mouth to him. The reasons he shouldn’t stormed through his mind, but the press of her lips, the little sighs in the back of her throat were an anchor.

“You should have dozens of kisses each day,” he whispered fiercely against her mouth before kissing the corners, then her chin, her cheeks, the curve of her neck. “Hundreds of thousands a year, innumerable in your lifetime.”

She gave a little sigh as they broke apart briefly. “Jaime,” she said on the exhalation. It shot through him like a lightning bolt, like the first ray of sunshine peeking through clouds.

Just a kiss, he told himself as he claimed her mouth again, as she mimicked his movements, pressing closer to him.

A kiss was a little thing. Next to nothing. There was no way a kiss could ruin them both.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude.

Jaime kissed her. He kissed her until her blood ran hot, until she was lightheaded, until the molten feeling in her belly slid lower and became a throbbing pulse. He opened her mouth to him and slid his tongue inside where it met with hers, shy at first and then more bold. He smoothed his hands up and down her back, gripped the nape of her neck and pressed their bodies so close she swore she could feel his heart beating through all their layers. Jaime kissed her, he kissed her until she wanted only that and him, and nothing else in the world. Then, he stopped.

Brienne was gasping when Jaime pulled away, and his breathing was no steadier.

“You need to leave,” he commanded roughly, his forehead still pressed to hers, his eyes screwed shut.

“Wh- why?” she asked, too dazed to even feel embarrassed.

“Because, I have no intention of ruining you and that will be much easier to avoid if you’re not here,” he snapped, releasing her entirely.

But something in Brienne had snapped as well, snapped or melted away in the heat of their embrace. She knew who she was, what she was, and somehow, impossibly, this man _wanted_ her. She had seen it, she had felt it, and she was not willing to give it up. Jaime had taken a few steps away, but Brienne followed, grabbing his arm. She was strong enough to arrest his movement, to urge him to face her again.

“Ruin me,” she scoffed. “Ruin me for _whom_?” He looked at her, eyes dark with desire. It was still a shock to recognize it, to know that it was for her. She untied the belt on her dressing gown and pulled it off, letting it plop to the ground, and toed off her slippers. Her plain cotton nightrail was no French negligee, but Brienne was no temptress. This moment would never come again. “There is no one else. There never will be. You know it’s true.”

The statement hung in the air between them, time stretching to a standstill as the decision was made. She could see the moment he accepted it, the moment the truth of it washed over him, softening his brow, smoothing out the tightness in his jaw. It barely stung.

His surrender came with a nod and a sigh. “God help us both,” he breathed before he was on her again.

Jaime’s hands were warm against her shoulders as he slid her nightrail to the side, baring them. The tie at the collar caught and he yanked at it, loosening it until Brienne had to cross her arms to keep the nightrail from slithering all the way down her body. He stroked her collarbone with his thumb, gently, before kissing her there. She tensed, gripping her nightrail more tightly to her as his mouth dipped lower, hot like a brand, to skim the tops of her modest breasts.

“J-Jaime,” she gasped, haltingly, but she had wanted this. Had all but demanded it, and his hand at the small of her back, urging her closer, silenced her.

One hand rubbed a soothing path up and down her spine as he scattered kisses across her breastbone as haphazard as the freckles there. He tugged once, sharply, at her garment and one of her breasts was uncovered to the night air. Her nipple puckered and Jaime closed his lips upon it, his quick tongue laving it as he sucked lightly. A wordless shout tore itself from Brienne’s throat at the sharp bolt of pleasure. Modesty forgotten, she released her hold on the nightrail to card her fingers through Jaime’s hair. She heard, no, _felt_ , him chuckle. Her nightrail slipped down, bunching at her waist, and Jaime took the opportunity to palm her other breast.

His fingertips on the bare skin of her waist were firm as he drew them both towards the massive four poster that dominated the room. His mouth parted from her breast with a wet pop before he claimed her lips again, kissing her deeply as she pressed against him, her nipples pebbling further as they chafed against his linen shirt. Brienne paused only briefly before insinuating her hands under his shirt and running them up along his belly. Jaime jerked against her at that, the hot hardness of him briefly robbing her of breath. He groaned low in his throat before maneuvering them so that she was sitting on the bed.

He pulled her nightrail the rest of the way off, down past her thick waist and thicker hips and discarded it behind him. Brienne pressed her thighs together, reddening from neck to navel to be so exposed. She waited for a quip or a clever remark. He’d been so quiet, it was disconcerting, but Jaime only stared at her, eyes burning as he bit his lower lip. Goosepimples were raising on her naked flesh, though she felt fever hot, and all Brienne could think of was how it would feel for his skin to press against hers. Emboldened, she reached up to tug at his shirt and he obliged her by helping her pull it over his head. He was so beautiful, with broad shoulders and corded musculature, and it was still unbelievable, unthinkable, that for this night, this moment in time, he was hers.

Brienne’s eyes dropped to his waist, where the fall front of his breeches remained in place, though the…protuberance there made her dart her eyes away. She had heard men talk, of course, and women as well when her maidenly presence was sometimes forgotten, but that was all a different thing entirely than seeing it for herself—than potentially feeling it for herself. But the thought barely had time to stick itself in her mind before Jaime was prowling forward, driving her back and back, until she lay near the center of the bed with him hovering over her.

He leaned in again to kiss her, a languorous slide of lips and tongue that was already becoming familiar. He coaxed her thighs apart, insinuating one of his legs between hers as he continued to kiss her, sweet soft kisses punctuated by little hums of pleasure as their bodies moved together. He drew light fingers along her leg, trailing a tingling heat in his wake. But when his fingers brushed the juncture of her thighs, she gasped and stiffened.

Jaime paused and studied her face carefully. “Do you not wish for me to touch you there?” he asked.

“N-no! That is- I thought you- I want you to.” She winced. It was hardly appropriate to discuss such things, though, she acknowledged, that was least of the inappropriateness currently taking place. “I did not know you would…w-with your hand.” 

He smiled, devilish, and leaned in closer, brushing his lips along the curve of her jaw as his fingers returned to slide along her slit. Brienne’s breath caught as he spread her, then worked his thumb in tight circles against her nub.

“Not only with my hand,” he said, before kissing a trail down her neck, and between her breasts. Brienne wriggled against his still busy hand, her eyes screwed tight with concentration as she tried to find the friction her body craved. But when she opened her eyes, Jaime was knelt between her splayed legs and he was looking at her…down there.

Instinctively, Brienne tried to close her legs, though she succeeded only in trapping Jaime’s hand between them.

“Trust me,” he said, rubbing her knee with his free hand. Gently, he coaxed her thighs apart again, and then, as Brienne watched, he lowered his mouth to her. She shrieked, high and loud, as much surprise as pleasure. Then, Jaime brought his tongue to bear and pleasure was all that remained.

No one had ever mentioned this, or if they had she had not understood. It had to be terribly wicked, but Brienne could not bring herself to stop him.

“That-that can’t be allowed,” she gasped, her fingers curling in the linens as he rolled his tongue against just the right spot and colors exploded behind her eyelids.

“Anything that _you_ allow is allowed,” Jaime said as he paused in his sweet torture only long enough to press a finger into her. Brienne could only manage a squeak as Jaime returned to his work. Her entire body was taut, tense with pressure that she could not name, as Jaime played her body as skillfully as he’d once wielded a sword. Until, at last, the dam burst, and Brienne went to pieces with a cry of his name. She lay, boneless and spent, as Jaime climbed back up her body to lie beside her. Grinning, he caressed her cheek, thumb gently running along her bottom lip as she looked up at him through heavy eyelids.

“Have I exhausted you?” he asked, a small amused smile on his lips.

“Bloody well did,” she sighed, lacking the wherewithal to be embarrassed at the moment.

Jaime chuckled before kissing her softly on her mouth. He made as if to draw away, but Brienne pulled him back, kissing him with firm intent. If she was to be a wanton this night, then she would do it as fully as she ever had anything. Jaime’s response was vigorous as he insinuated his tongue into her mouth, rolling against hers with a delicious rhythm. He curved his hand around her buttock giving it a cheeky squeeze before stroking the underside of her thigh.

Brienne shifted as their languorous kiss continued, her arms about Jaime’s waist as she urged him atop her. A strangled sound in the back of his throat vibrated through his chest where it pressed against hers.

“Are you sure?” he asked, breaking their kiss to press his face against her neck.

“Yes- I- please,” Brienne’s words stuttered even as her hands fumbled at his breeches, clumsily undoing the buttons on his placard. Jaime pulled away to kneel over her and helped her, his left hand, at least, managing more dexterity than Brienne could currently summon.

Brienne gasped out a quiet ‘oh’ as his manhood sprung free, a thick shaft, deeply flushed, jutting out of a nest of coarse golden hair. With tentative fingers, Brienne traced its shape, stroking velvety skin almost reverently. Jaime only watched her, eyes dark and intense, jaw clenched, until her thumb glanced over the head. His adam’s apple worked violently as he gently tugged her hands away.

“Not just yet, love,” he whispered as he leaned in close again. “Unless you want me to embarrass myself.”

Brienne shook her head faintly as they kissed again and Jaime gently arranged her legs to either side of his waist. He clenched her bottom again as he positioned himself. Brienne felt the slightest pinch as, with a slow, smooth roll of his hips, Jaime sank into her.

“Christ, fuck, Brienne,” Jaime gasped as he slid in further and Brienne moaned, more loudly than she intended, driven by his nearness, the the feel of him filling her, and the throbbing in her most intimate places, wanting and wanting and wanting for something and knowing that Jaime could offer it. And offer it he did after an interminable pause while he was inside her to the hilt, as he pulled back out and then slid in again with a thrust that made Brienne’s toes curl.

Moments stretched and time suspended as Jaime thrust into her at a rhythmic tempo. He surged forward, implacable, as Brienne’s legs wrapped about him more tightly, as her hands grasped his shoulders more desperately. His hair was wild, golden curls falling against his brow until Brienne smoothed them away and pressed a kiss there. Sweat beaded his forehead and she could taste the salt on her tongue. The tide of pleasure rose in her again as the guttural groans Jaime uttered transitioned from her name to profanity, to utter incoherence, until at last, it broke like a wave smashing into the cliffs of Tarth. Jaime gasped his own release into her mouth, hips stuttering out a few final thrusts as he gave Brienne a hungry kiss.

He collapsed onto her for a time, face pressed into her neck as he took deep breaths. Then, he rolled away, and Brienne felt the chill of his absence. It lasted only a moment, though, before Jaime drew the bed curtains and retrieved the blankets. He pulled Brienne to him and cocooned them both before she had a chance to protest. Though, she likely would not have. Brienne felt wet and sticky and warm and lazy, but what she did not feel was regret. Though, pragmatism had not so abandoned her as morality seemed to have done.

“I will have to leave soon,” Brienne said, though she made no move to absent herself from his bed or his arms, where he held her lightly. “I cannot be found here.”

“I must depart early in the morning in any case,” Jaime said, one hand gliding idly up and down her back. “I will wake you.”

Of course, the altercation with Connington. It seemed impossible that Brienne could have forgotten it, but what happened in the interim had driven all else from her mind. It did not seem to have done the same for Jaime. His voice had been abstracted when he spoke and even in the darkness Brienne could see the whites of his eyes as he stared thoughtfully at the canopy. And when minutes passed without him speaking, Brienne knew something must be terribly wrong.

“Was it-“ she began, voice cracking as it broke the silence. “Was it… not… good?” Thankfully, the redness of her face was impossible to see.

Jaime shifted suddenly, as if shocked to hear her voice. Then, he laughed, a loud bark of pure mirth before kissing her softly on the mouth.

“Brienne, only you,” he said, “could nearly blind a man with pleasure and then ask whether it was good.”

“You needn’t tease me,” Brienne said, though how pleased she was overrode any attempt at indignation. She wound an arm about his waist under the blankets. “It was only— you were so quiet.”

Jaime sighed. “Only thinking of some business I must tend to. At Casterly.”

“Oh,” Brienne replied. “Then you’ll not- not be returning to London.”

Not that it would matter much if he did not. She would miss him, certainly, but she had no illusions that this interlude was the sort of thing that would last beyond this night. Brienne was not the kind of woman who took a lover. She had no idea how to even go about such a thing.

Yet, her heart still leapt when he replied.

“My business will only take a few days,” Jaime said briskly. “If this party drags on as they are wont to do I may well beat you back to Town.”

Brienne could not tamp back her smile. Her time was not up quite yet. She would still be able to see him, be near him, until Season’s end. Until it was time to return to Tarth and leave all of her fantasies behind—even the ones she’d only just discovered.

“What will you do there?” she heard herself ask, feeling bold.

Jaime pressed closer, and Brienne felt his smile against her shoulder.

“You will just have to wait and see,” he replied. “Now go to sleep. We both have an early morning.”

Brienne could have bristled at being commanded, but, in this, Jaime was not wrong, and being so close to him was altogether too pleasant and comfortable to resist. She could not quite nestle against him as a smaller woman might, could not be swallowed in his embrace, but, in the end, he did not seem mind being held as much as holding.


End file.
